


pinky promise

by vampirerising



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Blowjobs, M/M, Marriage pacts, POV Eddie Kaspbrak, Patty is her own tag, This really got away from me, handjobs, idiots to lovers, literally so dumb, the yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:42:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23759296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirerising/pseuds/vampirerising
Summary: “You didn’t answer me. Here I am, on myknee—”“—knees, plural—”“—asking for your hand in marriage when we are old and gray—”“—twenty-eight is neither of those things—”“—and the only thing you can say iswash your hands?I can’t believe romance is dead.”“We’re in a bathroom.”“And?”“And any romance we could have possibly had went out the window the second you came in here.”/Eddie and Richie make a marriage pact that, you know, does not define how they go about having relationships for the next ten years. What changes the game, though, is the introduction of Patty Blum to their lives. Sometimes all it takes is a push from very annoying, enthusiastic girl trying to celebrate her birthday.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 45
Kudos: 218





	pinky promise

**Author's Note:**

> Did I need to spend the past three weeks on this? No. Are there four different versions of it on my computer? Yes.
> 
> This honestly is... it's something, and it's not the something I should have been working on! Neither are the two other things I've written lmao but here we are. I am LOSING my mind.

Eddie is pretty sure he’s running—no, _sprinting_ —through the halls of this awful high school, which is very telling and very embarrassing, but can you blame him? His life is _over._

He’s not paying attention when he shoves open the bathroom door, focused on getting as much space between him and the cafeteria as possible. He snags his nail on the stall lock, skin ripping halfway down to his knuckle. He slams his elbow into the wall, sucks on his finger, and tries to focus on the sting of it instead of the sharp, antagonizing giggle of Greta Bowie, sitting down the table from him, or the simpering exclaim of “ _Oh, finally!_ ” from Sally Mueller, across from her. He remembers the way they looked at him, fake-pitying but mainly amused, whispering behind their hands, and how Moose and Belch coughed around words he’d rather not have them use to describe him.

It’s like everyone knew but the people involved. Like everyone knew this would be a disaster for Eddie and Eddie alone and once again he was made the joke of the day.

(The joke of the week. The month. The year. The _decade._ )

He bites down on his finger, which is _not_ the thing to do, and feels relief in the physical pain that almost drowns out the emotional. If he could just sit here forever and never go to school again, or the clubhouse, or the arcade, or… if he did what his mother wanted and stayed home for the rest of his life, Eddie thinks maybe his heart will repair itself.

Teeth still digging into the tear of his skin, Eddie drops onto the toilet seat, not once concerned about the germs that fester there, or the questionable liquid at the back of his thigh—he hopes it’s just water—or the last time this thing was even cleaned. Okay, no; that’s a lie. He worries about these things for maybe three seconds, probably less, biting down so hard on his finger he thinks he feels it in his bone, and then remembers the nauseating way his stomach dropped, how everyone, _everyone,_ was staring at him. The devastation that continues to crash and crest over him like a wave.

One second: fine.

The next: feeling like the world is going to end, the earth is going to open up and swallow him whole. Like he’s going to _die._

He’s so… he’s so stupid. He’s blind. He’s… Why did he—why did he _think—_

The main door swings open with a force Eddie can _feel,_ that has it slamming against the wall. He inhales sharply, catching his breath in his throat, pulls his legs up, and presses the soles of his sneakers against the front of the stall.

 _Leave,_ he thinks. _Leave. Please pass through. Please… please leave, le—_

“I know you’re in here.” The sink runs, the sound of water long and loud in the relative silence.

Eddie holds his breath, pretends like he’s not there, becomes smaller, and smaller, and smaller until he’s all but nonexistent. A speck. Not on anyone or anything’s radar.

“You know this is the girls’ bathroom, right?”

 _No,_ but no wonder it’s so clean. Smells so nice. Eddie would be embarrassed if he could fit any more humiliation in him. Any more trauma. There’s just… there’s no more space. He’s full of it. He’ll probably burst if looked at the wrong way. 

“Eddie.”

He is silent.

“Ed _die._ ”

Not a chance. No.

“Eddie, c’mon.”

No, no, no. _Leave._

“Spaghetti.”

Ridiculous. Dumb. He’s not a _food._

“Eds.”

It’s not fair, okay, that Eddie’s name can get twisted like this, that he has so many stupid nicknames. His name is _Eddie,_ please do _not_ call him Edward, or Eddie Spaghetti, or _Eds,_ Jesus Christ, it’s—

“ _Gotcha,_ ” Richie says delightedly.

Eddie groans, watery, irritated, and lackluster, and drops his feet. His thighs ache. “Stop calling me that,” he complains. He sounds five. He sounds like he’s on the brink of a temper tantrum. It’s embarrassing. Turns out he can still feel that. There’s still room for it somehow. 

“What am I supposed to call you?” he asks, coming closer to the stall. Eddie sees his Converse, _fuck off_ scribbled almost incomprehensibly on the whites of the toes. Eddie stares at them, the memory of the clubhouse coming to the forefront of his mind. Richie’d all but kneed him in the face, still not able to share the fucking hammock. Eddie hates those shoes, too, along with the nicknames, and, almost nonsensically, the fact that Richie takes up _all_ of that stupid hammock and never leaves enough room for him. 

“My name, maybe,” Eddie shoots back snottily.

Richie raps his knuckles against the door. “I did,” he says, and then softer, “You gonna come out? This is the _girls’_ bathroom.”

“Yeah, you said,” Eddie mutters, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t think he cares. He sniffs, somehow both wet and dry at the same time, and turns his attention to the blue glob of gum stuck to the side of the toilet paper dispenser. He thinks it over, debates the pros and cons—pro: removal; con: disgusting—and starts picking at it with his nail (the one that’s not ripped).

 _Ew._ But he doesn’t stop.

“Eddie,” Richie murmurs, knocking again. “Come on.” He tugs on the tiny door handle, shaking the thing like he’s able to unlock it from the other side. He sighs. Eddie has gum under his nail. “Fine,” Richie decides. “I’m comin’ in.”

“I’m not unlocking the—oh my _god,_ ” Eddie bleats. Shrieks, actually, watching Richie fucking— _he crawls under the door._ Under. The. Door. “You don’t know when they last—that’s disgusting, Rich, don’t even _think_ about touching me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Richie holds up his hands, palms out, and balances into a squat, pressing his back to the boxy corner of the stall. He’s almost too big for this space, legs too long, shoulders too broad, almost the same height as Eddie, even as Eddie is perched on a toilet. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Sitting,” Eddie replies, pulling his gaze away from Richie’s. He hates how seen Richie makes him feel, even when he hasn’t said anything substantial. He didn’t even answer the question, but Richie knows. He _knows._ There’s no point in asking.

Above the dispenser, it says _Beverly Marsh is a dirty slut._ Eddie frowns at it, not exactly her biggest fan right now, but he hates that someone wrote this about her. She’s a _nice_ girl. She’s a good person. She’s his friend, even if he’s… okay, he’s not mad at her, but he’s something.

“That was probably Greta,” Richie comments, following his line of sight.

Eddie clicks his tongue, annoyed. “It’s always Greta.”

“The worst is when it’s Sally,” Richie says. “She pretends she’s so nice, but she’s really as bitchy as Greta.” He pulls a Sharpie out of his pocket and hands it over, thick and black. “Fix it.”

“Fix what?”

“That.” Richie gestures with his chin. “Bev’s not a dirty slut. Bev hasn’t been with anyone but Bill and all she did was kiss him in our third grade play, which—that’s weird, right? Why did eight-year-olds have to kiss in our play? Who wants to see that?”

Eddie bites the inside of his cheek to refrain from making a face, not sure how his mouth will twist, and uncaps the marker. He doesn’t know why he does it, why he starts to cross out the words with big, dark strokes. “Our principal was a freak,” he says. “My mom always said he was—”

“No offense, but your mom is always wrong,” Richie interjects, “but he was weird, what I remember of him. I’ll give you that.” He pauses, continues watching Eddie, who feels the heat of his gaze on his cheek. “So you’re just sittin’ here. Just sitting in the girls’ bathroom.”

Eddie scribbles _Greta is a massive bitch_ above the square he’s made, and then adds a passive-aggressive heart next to it. “You’re also just sitting in the girls’ bathroom,” he says. “It’s worse, though, because you’re sitting on the floor.”

“Well, yeah.” Richie leans his head against the stall. “I’m here because you’re here.”

“Why?”

“I followed you,” Richie tells him. “I saw how upset you got.”

“You mean you weren’t all that interested in Bill and Bev’s beautiful announcement?”

Richie snorts. “Nah, dude,” he replies. “I’m gonna give them two months tops before they realize how bad they are for each other.”

Eddie exhales in shock, dropping the Sharpie to the ground. Richie snatches it up and pockets it again. “You think?”

“Oh, yeah,” Richie says. “That’s a disaster waiting to happen. Their zodiac signs are wildly incompatible.”

“Their… zodiac signs,” Eddie repeats.

“I analyzed their birth charts,” Richie says. “I was bored. Bill’s an idiot. The most unobservant person I’ve ever met. He wouldn’t be able to tell his face from his ass if someone wasn’t there to point it out for him.”

Eddie blinks. “The stars told you that?”

“No, my several years of being friends with him did,” Richie answers. “He’s nice, but he’s stupid, Eddie.”

It’s like he’s saying something more than what he is, like these words mean something else, and Eddie drops his chin to his chest, trying to hide his face in his shirt. He really regrets not wearing a turtleneck like he debated this morning and then decides that it doesn’t really matter if Richie sees any of this. He’s been present for more than half of his over-the-top breakdowns. He’s always there, even if it’s just one of those panic-induced asthma attacks he often has.

He sniffles, cranes his neck, and tries to blink back the tears before they start. The ceiling, he notices, is covered in water stains.

Richie urges a travel pack of tissues into his hand. Coughs. Says, “Here.”

“I’m not going to _cry,_ ” Eddie snaps.

“You can,” Richie says, “if you want.”

“I’m _not._ ” Eddie sounds stuffed up already, _Jesus Christ._ He’s not going to—he’s _not,_ okay? “It’s stupid. There’s not even anything… there’s nothing… why would I _even—_ ” He stops, mouth drying out like there’s no ventilation in this place, and given how warm he is, he thinks that may be the case.

He fiddles with the plastic around the tissues, opening and closing the flap. The crinkle of it calms him a bit, but his torturous memory kicks in full force to remind him of what an idiot he is.

Bill is… he’s straight. Of course he is straight. In all the time Eddie’s known him, and that’s, like, what, twelve years, Bill has never once acted like he wasn’t. Like he liked boys at _all,_ and Eddie just… Eddie wanted it so badly, he just… he…

He _thought._ He’s always fucking thinking. That’s the issue here.

Fuck.

Okay, so, it’s, like—no one’s ever been that nice, that attentive, that… no one’s ever _wanted_ to be his friend before the way Bill has. Eddie’s been the class fucking hypochondriac since he could remember, caring about dirt and germs and washing his hands more than literally _anyone else._ He’s been bullied by Bowers and Patrick Hockstetter and their crew more times than he can count because he cares about how he looks, and his mother storms the school for no good reason literally once a week. He’s a _loser,_ and a _freak,_ and a _sissy gay boy._ Everyone seemed to know he liked boys before he did, and they never let him figure it out on his own. He’s got his head flushed in toilets like the one he’s sitting on, and he’s gotten his face shoved in the track outside, and his lunch spilled all over him…

And not once has Bill ever condoned that. Bill’s gotten beat up, too, for defending him, for standing up for him, for just being there. He’s so cool, and he’s so patient and kind and… and Eddie misinterpreted. Saw one thing when it was another.

He’s constantly doing that, thinking people _pick_ him. 

And to make matters worse, Eddie gasps now. Coughs. He feels like he’s hyperventilating, like his lungs aren’t filling up correctly, like they’re constricting and there isn’t enough oxygen in the world. Eddie cannot breathe. He can’t _breathe._ He grabs his throat, fingers wrapping around it, massaging it, and leans his head against the tile behind him. He tries to remember what to do, how to calm down, and really, truly thinks about hitting his head on the wall. His backpack is still in the cafeteria, kicked under the table. His inhaler is in there. He’s so—

 _Stupid,_ thinks. _So fucking stupid._

“No, you’re not,” Richie says. Eddie blinks, lowers his head, and finds him close enough to touch, and Richie _is—_ oh my god, he’s _touching him_ _with his dirty floor hands,_ oh my _god._ He doesn’t stop him, though, lets those gross palms hold his cheeks, staring at him like maybe… like… no, he can’t. It’s dumb.

Richie holds eye contact, and Eddie finds it hard to look away, even though he so desperately wants to. “Hey,” Richie murmurs. “Follow me, okay? _In,_ like this”—he inhales, and Eddie follows, reflexively like he’s not aware he’s doing it—“and _out._ Just like that. Look at me. In and out. Don’t think about anything else, just me and breathing. Come on.”

Eddie isn’t sure how long they stay like this, close enough for their noses to touch, Richie’s fingers in his hair, nails at the scalp by his ears. Eddie breathes, deep and slow, and grips Richie at the wrists, holding him tight. He finds comfort in his steady pulse, in the fingerprints on his lenses.

Richie is real and here and Eddie can focus on that, not the unease in the pit of his stomach or the dread that climbs up his spine. This is… this is good. It’s fine.

Richie’s voice is muted and low when he talks next. It is such a drastic change from his loud, abrasive personality. “You’re not stupid,” he tells him. “Bill is stupid.”

“No, he’s not,” Eddie mutters. “Stop saying that. Bill’s just straight.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not stupid,” Richie returns easily. “Just means he’s got bad taste.”

“You like girls,” Eddie points out.

“And boys.” Richie pinches his cheek. “Girls _and_ boys. I like ‘em all, Spagheds.”

“Ugh.” Eddie slaps his hand away. “Why are you so annoying?”

Richie smiles at him, small and soft and _too nice._ He uses the tissues Eddie neglected to wipe at the tears on his cheeks. “Because it keeps you from being sad.”

“It’s not keeping me from anything,” Eddie retorts. “Now I’m just sad and annoyed.”

“But _why?_ ” Richie asks. “It’s not like—”

Eddie hits his hand out of the way again and wipes at his own face. He doesn’t even remember crying, but his eyes hurt and his nose stings and he hiccups. He presses that damp tissue into his left eye, hard enough that it throbs beneath his fingers. 

“It’s stupid,” he mumbles.

“Can’t be,” Richie argues, “if it’s making you feel this way.”

Eddie shakes his head. “Everything I feel is stupid. It’s not real, not even my asthma, so why would this be?”

“Okay, hey, don’t say that,” Richie says. “Your mom got into your head. That doesn’t mean the things you feel are stupid. That’s ridiculous.”

“They _are,_ Rich,” Eddie insists, “and can you please stop trying to touch me with your disgusting hands? You crawled on the goddamn _floor._ ”

“Fine.” Richie holds his hands up, laces his fingers, and balances on his heels. “Look, I’d be the first person to tell you if anything you did was stupid, you know that, and—he _llo,_ look at me, right at me—you’re _not_ stupid. Nothing about you is stupid. You were wrong about Bill? Okay, who the fuck cares? That’s not stupid. We were all wrong about Bill. We thought he was the coolest kid we knew when we were eleven, but we were wrong. He’s just a big a loser as the rest of us.”

“That’s not the same,” Eddie whispers. “I just… it’s not… not necessarily about Bill, I think.” He bites his lip, averts his gaze, and stares at that piece of gum he couldn’t get off. “Promise you won’t laugh at me?”

“Me? Laugh at you? Never.”

“You laughed at me, like, an hour ago.”

“Yeah, you tripped,” Richie says. “Of course I’m going to laugh at _that,_ but I’m not going to laugh at, like, your _feelings._ That’s fucked, dude.”

Eddie sniffs. Sighs. Blinks at him.

“I came in after you, man!”

“To _laugh_ at me.”

“I’m not going to laugh when it’s _important,_ ” Richie says. “Even I have some empathy.” He swallows, fiddles with his glasses, dirties them up even more. “And, come on, dude, it’s _you._ I’m not going to—not at _you,_ Eddie. I swear I won’t laugh.”

Eddie rubs at his nose, gets sticky snot all over the back of his hand. “No one’s ever been as nice to me as Bill has,” he says honestly. “No one’s ever, like, _cared_ about what I was doing, or how I was feeling, or just, you know, checked up on me.” He shuts his mouth with a snap, afraid his voice will crack, will betray the seriousness in which he feels these things. “He’s been my best friend for years—”

“Okay, _fuck that,_ ” Richie interrupts, mouth twisted. “I’m sorry, but _Bill’s_ been your best friend for years? Since fucking _when,_ Eds?”

“Since, uh, kindergarten,” Eddie answers. “Maybe earlier. I’ve known him so long I forget sometimes.”

“Okay, yeah, you’ve _known_ him since kindergarten,” Richie says, “but he hasn’t been your best friend for that long. What the fuck am I?”

“You’re…” Eddie looks at him, squatting there on the bathroom floor, folded and compact, but not once complaining about it. His legs must hurt, but he’s just there, listening. Paying attention. Like always. “You’re—we’re… We’re, uh. Different. Like I’m me and you’re you.”

“Are we not best friends?”

“I _just said_ we are,” Eddie says.

“You said we were different.”

“Yeah,” Eddie snaps. “We’re _different._ It’s… you know… see? This is why I didn’t want to talk to you about this. You always nitpick everything I say.”

“I’m not _nitpicking—_ ”

“ _Since fucking when, Eds?_ ” Eddie mimics, doing a piss-poor job of hitting Richie’s voice, but it doesn’t matter.

Richie blinks, frowning, and replies, “He hasn’t been your best friend in _years,_ Eddie. All that shit you’re saying… he hasn’t done that since the ninth fucking grade, so I don’t know why the fuck you’re so upset over a _los—_ ”

Eddie digs his toes into the ground and interrupts, loud, echoing, and harsh: “I’m afraid no one is ever going to love me, okay? I’m afraid I’m going to be alone _forever,_ or be stuck with my mom, and I can’t figure out which one is _worse—_ ”

“ _Bullshit,_ ” Richie says. “Because of Bill? Bill _Denbrough?_ Eddie, he wears _jorts._ ”

“No,” Eddie retorts, flicking his fingers at him in annoyance. “I said it wasn’t—it’s because I’m always fucking _wrong._ I was wrong about trusting doctors, and trusting my mom, and about being straight, and smart, and about _him,_ and if I’m wrong about Bill, what will I _ever_ be right about?” He gasps again, unable to breathe, and digs his nails into his palms. “You don’t get it, Richie, because even though you’re so _annoying,_ everyone likes you. You’re funny, you don’t even have to try at school, and I watched, like, _three_ different girls ask you to the stupid fucking dance. You’re going to be fine, and Bill is going to be fine, and every single one of our friends is going to thrive when we get out of here, but what about me? I’m going to just—I’m going to be _here_ in this goddamn fucking bathroom stall for the rest of my life. All alone. A loser forever because no one wants anything to do with a neurotic mess when there’s so many other normal people out there.”

“Dude, you are _seventeen,_ ” Richie says. “Seven. Teen. There’s no need to worry about all of that right now.”

Eddie smacks his lips. “When _is_ the time then?” he asks. “When I’m forty and alone and… and… and I don’t know, _dying?”_

“You’re not going to be _dying,_ Eddie, Jesus Christ. What the _fuck._ And alone? Who says—where the fuck am I?”

“I don’t know.” Eddie shrugs. “Being famous or something. Not bothering with me.”

“In what world would I not bother with you?” Richie asks. “I love bothering you. It’s, like, what I was born to do.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t,” Richie replies. “Look, I could be the busiest person in the world, right? I could have, I dunno, three wives and several side pieces and _still_ have time for you. It’s right there in my calendar: _Eddie Time._ I’m not going to _not_ bother with you, are you kidding? No one’s going to leave you and if they do, they’re a bunch of fucking losers. You’re the best thing about this god awful town, Eddie.”

“Why are you going to have three wives and several side pieces?”

“ _That’s_ what you’re focusing on?”

“Yeah, because I don’t know why you need three wives and several side pieces when I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life,” Eddie grumbles. “Couldn’t you at least share?”

Richie laughs. “Absolutely not. I don’t share my Eddie Spaghetti.”

“ _Richie.”_

He leans forward, drops to his knees, and holds out his hands. “Can I touch?”

Eddie glances at Richie’s palms, at his wiggling fingers, and sighs. He knows when a battle is lost. “Fine.”

Richie grins, tweaks his nose, and ruffles Eddie’s hair. He messes up what took twenty minutes this morning but somehow relieves the pressure in his head. “I’m serious, dude,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere, even if everyone else does, _which they won’t._ Don’t look at me like that. I’m right.” His hands drop to Eddie’s cheeks, warm and big and kind of rough. “How about this, okay? Let me take you to the dance.”

“I don’t want to go to the dance,” Eddie complains.

“Then why’d you bring it up?”

“I was making a _point._ ”

“What kind of point?”

“I don’t know.” Eddie sniffs. “Just that I feel unwanted a lot, I guess. Like all the time, and you guys are just…”

“Stop, stop, stop,” Richie cuts in. “Don’t even go there. You’re all pink and it’s not worth it. Don’t think about it, okay? It’s ridiculous that you think no one would want you. I…” He smiles at him and Eddie is suddenly very aware of how cute Richie’s smile is. “I’m always gonna want you, okay, dude? Look, if it makes you feel better, we can make a pact, yeah?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “I don’t want to go to the dance, Rich.”

“That’s not it,” he says, “but we’re not going anyway.”

“ _We’re?_ ”

“Yeah, I’m gonna hang out with you,” Richie says. “We’ll make a whole thing of it, yeah? Like we used to when we were, what was it, twelve?”

“The arcade?”

“And root beer floats.”

Eddie sniffles again. “Okay. What’s the pact then?”

Richie goes shy, biting the inside of his cheek, and lets go of Eddie’s face. He holds his hand out, resting them on Eddie’s thighs, and Eddie slides his fingers between his. Richie tightens his grip, and Eddie copies, and they’re holding hands in the grubby, terribly-lit girls’ bathroom on the first floor of their shitty high school. “I find it highly unlikely this will ever happen, but if you’re single and I’m single by the time we’re, like, I don’t know, _twenty-eight,_ we’ll get married.”

Eddie breathes incorrectly. Swallows wrong. Chokes on his own fucking saliva. “ _Us?_ ” he asks. “Like, me and you?”

“No, I’m sorry.” Richie snorts. “Did I not make myself clear? I meant me and your mom.” He untangles their hands and wipes at Eddie’s face with his thumb. “Of _course_ me and you, idiot. Who else would I be willing to marry without having once dated?”

“Stan,” Eddie says immediately, some kind of half whine. He’s not proud of it, but it’s the truth.

“I’d kill for that guy, but we’re not romantically compatible,” Richie replies.

“You sound very certain about that.”

“Yeah,” Richie says. “I know we’re not.”

“The stars told you?”

The corner of Richie’s mouth quirks. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

Eddie does not like the sound of that, the certainty in it. It makes him itchy, he thinks.

“Okay,” he says slowly, dragging out the _a._ He scratches at his palm. “And you think _we_ are?”

“I don’t know,” Richie answers honestly, “but what I _do_ know is that you’re probably the only person I know who can still look cute while covered in snot.”

Eddie frowns.

“Would I lie to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Richie retorts. “What do you say?”

“Isn’t twenty-eight a little early to just—to give up?”

“You’re sitting in the _girls’ bathroom_ convinced you’re going to be _forty and alone_ because of _Bill Denbrough._ You have no say in what is _too early._ Will you marry me or what?”

“I told you it wasn’t about Bill,” Eddie retorts, “and this is wildly unromantic, Richie.”

“You chose the venue.”

“I will not be some _pity marriage._ ”

“Oh my god, Eds, I would be _lucky_ to end up with you.” Richie pinches his cheek. “Neuroticism and hypochondria and all.”

Eddie slaps his fingers away from his face. “Wash your hands.”

“You didn’t answer me. Here I am, on my _knee—_ ”

“—knees, plural—”

“—asking for your hand in marriage when we are old and gray—”

“—twenty-eight is neither of those things—”

“—and the only thing you can say is _wash your hands?_ I can’t believe romance is dead.”

“We’re in a bathroom.”

“And?”

“And any romance we could have possibly had went out the window the second you came in here.”

“Eddie.”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to accept my proposal or not?”

“What? Fine. Sure. Yes.” Eddie wrinkles his nose. “I accept.”

Richie musses up his hair again, grinning. “I know it’s not ideal, my good sir,” he says, adopting his terrible British accent, “but it won’t come down to it. I swear. It’s just a back-up plan. Bill rejecting you is not the end-all be-all. You are adorable. Anyone is going to want to snatch you up.”

_A back-up plan._

_Adorable._

“Bill didn’t reject me,” Eddie says. “He doesn’t even know. The whole school does, but he’s just—”

“Wildly unobservant,” Richie finishes, “but whatever. Technicalities. I mean it, though: This is not the end of the world. Bill is not the one who ruins you. He has a god awful haircut and only ever wears flannels. You’ll find someone else, someone better, someone who _likes_ you. You won’t need me.”

A very unwanted thought pops into the back of Eddie’s head. He ignores it, doesn’t even let it grow, but it festers.

“Who are you to make fun of someone’s haircut? You don’t even brush yours.”

“I brushed it today!” Richie exclaims. “Look. Touch. No knots!”

It festers and festers and festers, that unwanted thought. It fills him from the toes up.

He runs his fingers through Richie’s hair, soft and wavy and entirely without tangles. It’s nice to feel, and Eddie keeps doing it, long after what is probably considered appropriate.

Richie hums contentedly and says, “In the meantime, what should our color scheme be? I’m thinking, like, yellow, because you always look so good in it and—”

—and the thought builds strength, takes him over, takes control, and Eddie leans forward and kisses him.

He can feel how warm his face is when he pulls back, the kiss toothier than he would’ve liked, but Richie merely continues to make that satisfied sound. “Was that because I said you look good in yellow?”

“No,” says Eddie. “If we’re going to get married in ten years, we should probably know what that’s like.”

“Oh, so we _are_ getting married, then,” Richie teases. His hand grips Eddie’s knee, hot and heavy.

“I mean, I don’t know.” Eddie strokes his hair again, amazed by how _good_ it feels when Richie bothers with it. He once spent a week wearing a beanie because he didn’t want to wash it; that was gross. Probably as gross as this is, the two of them doing… whatever this is in the bathroom. The public bathroom. “There’s, like, a chance. A percentage. A probability I do not know right now off the top of my head that has us actually going through with it, but in all actuality, it probably won’t happen because that’s ridiculous. No one ever goes _through_ with fake marriage proposals.”

“That we know of.”

“It’s, like, a very common television trope, probably,” Eddie adds. “A humor thing.”

Richie mutters something, squeezing his kneecap, but Eddie catches none of it and that kind of annoys him. He doesn’t pry, though; he just sits there and waits, and is pleasantly surprised by the feel of Richie’s nose against his, his lips warm and soft and chapped against his own.

Is it embarrassing how easily he opens up under him? Is it saying something that he grips Richie by the cheeks, licks into his mouth, and turns the kiss into something he never thought anyone would actually ever want to do with him?

His heart pounds wildly in his chest, his senses overcome with all Richie is: his heat, his smell, his weight, the roughness of his palms. He wonders what this means but decides to ignore his long-winded thought processes for once in his life, and merely follows the motions, the movements.

Kissing is nice, and kissing Richie is even nicer because Richie is—he’s right—Richie is his best friend, and Richie has never hurt him, not once.

“What was that?” he asks, breathless and lightheaded.

“If we want to know what it’s like, we have to do it right,” Richie replies, cheesin’ at him. His mouth is so big. So red.

Eddie goes, “Oh,” and pulls him in again, exploring this… this _doing it right_ thing further.

The bell rings above their heads, shrill and loud, and it’s not how Eddie planned to spend the period after lunch, but becoming acquainted with Richie’s mouth in the middle stall of the girls’ bathroom, half his weight in his lap… well, it’s better than AP Bio any day.

* * *

This does not become a problem that follows Eddie for the rest of his life.

( _Eddie has never broken up with someone before, and he’s not entirely sure this_ is _a break up, but he does know he needs to say something to end it. He’s not interested in it or in him. The sex isn’t even that great—well, no, it’s good—but it’s pretty telling that every time he closes his eyes, every time he comes, he sees his best friend’s face. A sign all on its own, but even worse: his name is too close to Richie’s for Eddie’s comfort. He knows one day he’ll slip up, so he says, “You’re a really great guy, but I just don’t think I’m interested in seeing you again.” He feels awful after. Awful and relieved._ )

It most definitely does not.

( _Greg doesn’t take the break up all too well, now that Eddie knows how they work. He calls him out on too many things to count—fucking the trainer at the gym, whose name Eddie doesn’t even_ know, _being selfish in bed, caring more about school than him, not bothering to hang out with his friends. Eddie lets him do it, annoyed as he is, and spends most of his time on his phone, trying to find out what Richie wants to do for dinner._

 _He toggles back and forth between his messages and movie times, tells him if they leave now they can probably catch the next showing of_ Thor: The Dark World. 

_Greg steals every box of Kraft macaroni and cheese Eddie owns. Eddie doesn’t figure that out for weeks._ )

Eddie manages to live like a very sane person—or he does in a world where he’s never met Richie Tozier in the first place.

( _“This isn’t working,” Sam says, standing in front of Eddie at the library._

_Eddie looks up at him, brow furrowed, and puts his pen in between the pages of his textbook so he doesn’t lose his place. “The library works once you sit down and start studying,” he replies, though he knows what this is about and it’s not that._

_Sam sighs, pulls out a chair, and sits. He doesn’t take off his jacket or his backpack; this is not to be a long conversation. “That’s not what I’m talking about,” he says. “I’m talking about us. I don’t think… You aren’t… You don’t want to be in a relationship with me.”_

_Eddie stays quiet, listening. His foot taps to the beat of the song playing in his left headphone._

_“You’re more interested in what Richie is doing, where he is, if he’s having a good time,” Sam explains gently, like Eddie doesn’t already know this about himself. Eddie_ knows _he sucks. That he’s a piece of shit. This isn’t news. “I feel like I come second to him, which is fine, you’re best friends, but it’s_ all the time, _Eddie. Have you ever considered that you want to be with_ him? _Have you told him how you feel?”_

_“No,” Eddie says, “and I don’t really need your advice on that, Sam. If that’s all, I have a really big Stats test tomorrow, so I really need to get back to…”_

_Sam clears his throat. “Uh. Yeah. Right. Good luck with that. See you around.”_

_“Mhm.” Eddie shoves his other headphone in his ear, flips open his textbook again, and texts Richie_ u wanna go out tonight? 

_Richie’s reply is instantaneous:_ i was supposed to go on a date but ya lol where?)

Alas, this is not that world.

( _Eddie only ever swipes left on dating apps, uses them to partake in his favorite pastime of judging people and laughing at their truly stupid bios. The funniest ones are like_ I’m 6’1 if that matters to anyone _and, like, you can_ tell _from the pictures that they aren’t. Anyone he_ does _swipe right on or match with (usually on accident, oops) ends up looking just like Richie. He deletes all of his accounts, the apps, and restarts his phone back to factory settings after he figures_ that _out._ )

He’s fine.

( _Another birthday gone, and Eddie is single._

 _Another year older, and Richie is single._

_Mid-twenties and they’ve both got people they see on the semi-regular, but every time a birthday comes along, Richie’s_ or _Eddie’s, they are coincidently not dating anyone and spending time only with each other._

 _Eddie does not read into it. He’s stopped doing that. He is… he’s_ better _now, okay? And Richie is very important to him. He’s not going to ruin that friendship because he’s overanalyzing something as stupid as… as the thing they made in a bathroom stall. The, uh. The pact._

 _The promise, if you will._ )

He is! He’s an Adult!

( _He’s remembered the exact inflection of Richie’s voice, the way his eyes looked, the feel of his hands._ If you’re single and I’m single by the time we’re, like, I don’t know, _twenty-eight_ , we’ll get married.

 _It’s coming up soon, the year they’ll both be twenty-eight. Eddie’s not counting down or anything. He always circles his birthday on his calendar. Always counts it down. He loves birthdays. And cake. And presents. And, uh, attention._ )

Oh, shut up.

* * *

There is a ringing in his ears, a dull roar of sound, nothing but aggressive, painful _silence_ despite Daniel talking to him from across the table. Eddie watches his mouth move, aware that there _is_ a conversation happening here, one he should participate in, but the words aren’t registering.

All he hears is _next step,_ and _serious,_ circulating round and round in his head. He chews on a cube of cheese, looks up from the table, and makes eye contact with Richie, who smiles at him from behind the bar.

The silence, the words—they dissipate at the sight of his grin and his bulky glasses and his ugly, worn denim shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. They are replaced with something else, with Richie’s voice from years past echoing in his head.

The din of the bar comes in by full force. Eddie hears the wild laughter of the girls at the table next to him, and the wind-down of the office happy hour on his other side, and the opening bars of _Paradise by the Dashboard Light,_ requested by some dude in a dress shirt with three of the buttons loosened. That’s very brave of him. He’s about to take them all on an eight-minute journey and it’s clear that the twenty-one-year-olds in the corner are _not_ thrilled.

Eddie looks at Daniel, mouth twitching uncomfortably, and scratches the side of his neck. Daniel stares at him expectantly, which makes Eddie feel a little bad about, y’know, _not_ listening, but how can he when Richie’s wearing that ugly, worn denim shirt of his? When he’s not even twenty feet away from him? Why did they _come_ here?

He drains his water, stabs another cheese cube with a toothpick, and says, like he’s said to them all, “I don’t think this is working out,” and all other sorts of shitty breakup nonsense.

_It’s not you, it’s me._

_I’m not looking for anything more serious than this._

_You’re a great guy, but…_

He never says what it really comes down to, not to Daniel, not to the ones before him, not to Richie. _There’s somebody else. There’s always going to be somebody else._

He awkwardly salutes him, offers to pay the tab, and shuffles away to where he spotted Mike and Stan, thankfully on the other side of the room. He drops down at their table, grabs a drink, asks, “What is this?”

“It’s a…”

“It’s disgusting,” Eddie says, draining it.

Mike blinks, forkful of mac n cheese still halfway to his mouth.

Stan sighs and looks down at his watch. “That’s the longest one,” he comments.

“Were you watching me?”

“You’ve had your crazy eyes on for weeks,” Stan answers. “By the time we hit mid-October you were either going to become a serial killer or break up with him, which was a good move on your part. He was incredibly bad at Pictionary and only ever drank really pretentious IPAs, and not even the _good_ pretentious IPAs. Where did you _find_ him, Eddie?”

“Accounting,” Eddie mumbles. “What is this?”

“You’ve seen a charcuterie board before,” Mike points out. “It’s an olive.”

“An olive,” Eddie repeats.

Stan slaps his hand out of the way. “You don’t like olives,” he says. “Of course he was a finance bro, he’s got such a—”

“— _you’re_ a finance bro,” Mike interrupts. “You are literally an accountant.”

“I’m better than him in every conceivable way,” Stan remarks, tossing his hair back. It’s not long enough for his desired effect, but it still reads so remarkably snooty that Eddie almost smiles at him. “Is this the year?”

“Of course it is,” Mike answers. “It’s year ten. _The_ year. We’ve got…” He looks down at his phone, lit up with the time, date, and the lock screen photo of Stan face swapped with a dog. “A little less than a month until Eddie turns the big two-eight.”

Eddie chomps down on that olive anyway. “I regret telling you guys things,” he says, spitting the thing right back out. “But you are right about the olives. Blech.” He wipes his tongue on a napkin, reaches out for the cup by Stan’s side, and—

“Nuh-uh,” Stan warns. “Get your own.”

“I’d have to get up,” Eddie whines.

Mike waves a hand. “Bar’s, like, three feet away. Less. It’s not a big deal.”

“What,” Stan begins, smiling at him. It’s remarkably unnerving. “You scared to get anywhere near Richie?”

“ _No,_ ” Eddie snaps. “I’m not _scared_ of _Richie._ ”

“Then go get a drink,” Stan suggests, karate-chopping Eddie’s hand away again. “And while you’re at it, perhaps tell him how you _feel—_ ”

“I don’t feel anything! I feel angry. I hate you.”

“Hey, can you get more cheeseballs?”

Eddie sighs, rubs a hand over his face, and pushes himself up. The music has been hijacked again, a drastic change from Meatloaf to some sort of synth-y pop he doesn’t actually like. It sounds like a remix. Sounds like it could be Britney Spears. 

“He’s not coming back, is he?” Mike asks.

“Nope,” Stan replies.

“Damn. I really wanted more cheeseballs.”

“You’ll get ‘em,” Stan assures him. “Somehow.”

Eddie ignores them, marches over to the bar, and sits. He can hear Richie talking nearby, the pitch of his laugh, the titter of girls who are probably _just_ old enough to drink legally. They probably think his old-timey Italian mob boss accent is funny. It’s not. He’s got better voices than that.

He nibbles on a pretzel, pulls out his phone, and passively likes each and every picture he sees on Instagram, including one of Bev’s throwback posts of her and Ben, circa, like, seventh grade. It’s cute. Ben has chubby, chubby cheeks and a gap in his teeth. Precious. God’s gift to this Earth is twelve-year-old Ben Hanscom, Eddie thinks. He painstakingly looks through his emojis for the yellow heart and comments four of them.

“Hiya, cutie,” Richie greets delightedly. “I’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

Eddie lifts his head and smiles, tightlipped and kinda dimply. His eyes are partly closed.

The muscles of Richie’s forearm are on full display as he presses his hands to the bar top. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Eddie says, not staring at them, but also not _not_ staring at them, you know? “I’m thirsty. Mike wants cheeseballs.”

“Mike?” Richie asks, looking past him. “Weren’t you here with Daniel?”

“Yes,” Eddie answers. “I take orders now. I am a waiter.”

“Literally the complete opposite, but okay. Water? Wine? Sweet? Bitter?”

Eddie shrugs. Eats another pretzel.

“Okay, cool.” Richie shouts at Mike to come get his food and Eddie watches him deliberate what to make him. With his back to him, his gaze roams over his broad shoulders, the hair that curls at the back of his head, stuck under the collar of his shirt.

He turns back, Eddie pretends he wasn’t staring, and places a tall, colorful drink in front of him. It has a grapefruit slice.

“What is this?”

“Pink.”

“It’s just… it’s—pink,” Eddie says, squinting at it. “Why?”

“Cheeks,” Richie replies, like that’s a reasonable answer. He leans forward to pinch one, then drops onto his elbows. He is suddenly too close to Eddie, who doesn’t know how to move away without causing a _scene,_ and Eddie can smell his aftershave, woodsy, minty, combined with the sharp alcohol scent he always has sticking to him after his shifts. Eddie hates it. He _hates_ it. “Now fess up, Eds.”

“Fess up? Have I committed a crime?” He tries his drink, tangy, sweet, and refreshing. “Am I being interrogated?”

Richie does that thing where he looks equal parts annoyed and fond. “You have that look on your face.”

Eddie frowns. “Crazy eyes?”

“Nah, your eyes are fine,” Richie says seriously. “It’s more the…” He waves a hand at him, circling around his face. “You look upset. No. Not upset. Stressed? No. There’s a… it’s… I don’t know, you’re just—talk to me, dude.”

“Can I have a straw?” Eddie asks.

Richie dangles it in front of him, still wrapped in paper, and pulls it out of Eddie’s grasp every time he tries to take it. “Tell me what happened,” he says.

“Nothing _happened,_ ” Eddie replies. “Straw, please.”

“Then why do you have your—” Richie taps his nose with the end of the straw. “It’s your puppy-dog-sad face. That’s what it is.”

“I don’t have a _puppy-dog—_ ”

“You do.” Richie widens his eyes in a mockery of Eddie’s face. Eddie can almost see his reflection in his glasses; what it is that Richie sees is Eddie’s normal expression, the one he has every time he sees Richie. It’s embarrassing and telling and why didn’t _anyone_ tell him this is what he looks like? Pink cheeks, round eyes, mouth in this perpetual state of, like—is it _shock?_ Why does he look like _this?_

Richie says something, but Eddie misses it. He’s overcome with the obviousness of his entire fucking _being._ With the way Richie curls his tongue over his teeth, all red and wet, of what else he can _do_ with his tongue.

“You’re doing it again!” Richie says. “What’s wrong, Eds?”

 _I have no chill,_ Eddie debates saying. _I am a terrible person. I’m awful and I don’t even try to not be. Everything is wrong. I want you to marry me._

“This is a good drink,” Eddie tells him. “What is it?”

“A paloma,” Richie answers. “It’s like pulling teeth with you. What’s up? Tell me.”

“ _Nuh-_ thing,” Eddie says. “Like I told you. Nothing is wrong. This is my face, crazy eyes and puppy-dog-sad or whatever, and I am _fine._ ”

“Mhm. Super fine,” Richie returns. He unwraps the paper from around the straw and drops it into Eddie’s drink. “That’s why you’re here with me and not with Daniel. What’d he do? Should I go beat him up?”

“No reason to,” Eddie says. “Not like you _could_ beat anyone up anyway. Aren’t you a pacifist?”

“Not if someone is bothering you, Spaghetti,” Richie replies cheekily. “All bets are off. Pow. Pow. _Blam!_ ” He throws a punch at an invisible foe. It’s kind of not good, but it gives Eddie a good look at his arm, which is connected to his shoulder, and Richie has such _broad shoulders._ They’re so nice.

Eddie bites down on his straw, like, _really_ bites down on it. He could tear a hole into it with the strength of his teeth. They’re kind of pointy, like little fangs. “I really don’t want to have to take you to the ER again to reset your nose. You know how I feel about blood.”

“You think _Daniel_ can break my nose?” Richie asks. “ _Daniel?_ He’s like…” He makes a variety of hand gestures, all borderline offensive but Eddie doesn’t find it in himself to care. He slurps at his drink, following the motions of his fingers, his knuckles, the veins. Also so nice. Hands and shoulders. A package deal. “Daniel can’t break my nose, Eds.”

He’s not sure how he hears that, as focused on the task at hand. “Even if that were true,” he says, “there’s no reason. He’s not, like… necessary anymore. Unessential. Nonessential? _Irrelevant._ ”

Richie looks from Eddie’s face to his drink and back again and asks, rather slowly, “Did you two break up?”

“I’m pretty sure I just pulled a _Legally Blonde,_ ” Eddie admits.

“Are you Elle or Warner in this situation?”

“Are you kidding? Elle is someone to aspire to, but Warner. Obviously.”

“He thought you were going to propose but you were really ending things?”

“No.” Eddie pushes his glass, now empty, towards Richie. “I think he was trying to—I don’t know, actually. I wasn’t listening. Is that bad? Am I a terrible person?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Richie goes through the motions of making him another drink. “You don’t stay with someone if you aren’t happy with them. What makes you a terrible person,” he says grandly, dropping slices of grapefruit and lemon into his drink, “is not telling me anything about your relationship problems.” 

“I didn’t have anything to tell,” Eddie admits. “It just… happened.” 

“Something normally has to happen for you to realize you don’t want to pursue the relationship further,” Richie says. 

Eddie frowns at him. “Why do you sound like a self-help book?”

“I don’t… I have _some_ experience with relationships.” Richie laughs. “I may not date as much as you or am basically married like those two idiots”—he juts his chin towards Stan and Mike—“but I _do_ know a thing or two.”

“Ew.”

“ _Ew?”_

“Yeah. Ew.” Eddie grabs his glass back, accidentally touches fingertips to fingertips with Richie, and pretends the shudder that goes up his arm is because of the chill of the new ice cubes. “No one wants to know about that.” 

“I can take the drink back.”

“Not if I spit in it.”

“I mean, I definitely can,” Richie says. “I’ll just pour it out.”

“You wouldn’t.” 

“I would.”

“I don’t believe you.” 

Richie harrumphs, grabs for it, and Eddie is almost so overcome with how _big_ his hands are—he can wrap all of his fingers around the entire thing—that he almost loses his drink to him. 

Eddie pinches the skin of his wrist and says, “He was leaving things at our place—“

“—ew, like what?”

“Clothes. A toothbrush—“

“—the red one? Okay, full disclosure, I may have used it, I thought it was just a replacement like you sometimes do—“

“—that’s disgusting, you just _use_ random toothbrushes—“

“—since living with you, yes—“

“—and he also left, like, books he’s reading, like _Moby Dick_ and _Lord of the Flies—_ “

Richie groans. “He’s so pretentious.”

“He’s a high school English teacher,” Eddie says, deadpan. “It’s, like, kind of his job to—“

“—to bore people to tears?” Richie asks. “You remember our twelfth grade English teacher? That dude was so sick. Class was _fun._ ”

“You just like that he thought your video projects were funny.”

“They were.”

“You killed me in the retelling of _Hamlet._ Mike _rapped_ the hyena song from _The Lion King._ ”

“And it was fucking hysterical,” Richie says. “You think Mike can still do it?”

“I don’t want to know,” Eddie says. “We were talking about—“

“—how pretentious your ex-boyfriend is. Yes. One time he gave me a play by play of _Pride and Prejudice_ as if the 2005 Kiera Knightley _classic_ is not on constant rotation in our apartment.”

“I… _what?_ ”

“Look, my darling Eds, I get it if you’re upset about breaking up with him. It’s cool. It’s how life works, but I can guarantee you won’t miss him.” Richie pats the top of his head. “We can finally go back to horror movie Fridays.” 

“That sounds nice, but I don’t think I’m upset about it,” Eddie admits. 

“Then what’s with the face?” 

Eddie shrugs, twisting in his seat a bit on the pretense of looking back at their friends, but it’s really only so he can move out of the heat of Richie’s gaze. He can be so intense, sometimes, with his attention. It’s uncomfortable. It makes Eddie feel like there’s something on his face; he picks at his cheek as surreptitiously as he can, makes a show of tucking his hair behind his ear. He needs to get it cut probably. 

He watches Stan show Mike something on his phone, something they both find terribly amusing. They are sitting so close together it’s hard to see where Stan’s sweater ends and Mike’s cardigan begins. It annoys him, just a smidge, that they got their shit together so quickly. 

It annoys him that to his right, those young, small, very thin, very made up girls are still staring at Richie, who is _too old for them,_ and that he can’t tell if Daniel left or not. He hopes so, but then again, he’s not looking forward to him coming over to get all the stupid shit he left but shouldn’t have at his place. Another cheery pop song plays from the speakers above them, and Eddie hates it, but Richie hums along, high-fives some random patron he probably knows as he leaves. 

Eddie sighs and finishes his drink in one fell swoop. He shouldn’t have done that, and he should tell Richie he doesn’t want another one, but he’s not being smart right now. He _is_ remarkably hot though. “I don’t know,” he hears himself say, and he’s pretty sure he’s surprised by it. He didn’t know he was going to say that. Or anything, really. “I just… I’m going to be twenty-eight next month—” 

Richie adds more fruit to his cup, a smorgasbord of pink and yellow. “Mazel,” he says. 

“There are more lemon slices in this than alcohol,” Eddie remarks. 

Richie grins, fiddles with his glasses, and says, “You didn’t want a fruit salad?” 

“No.” Eddie lifts the glass to consider it. “Is this free?” 

“Yes.”

“Are Stan and Mike’s things free?” 

“No.”

“My stuff is free?” 

“Yes.”

“All the time?”

“All the time.” 

“Huh.” Eddie drops the glass back on the napkin. “How can you get away with that?” 

Richie wiggles his fingers close enough to Eddie’s neck that he jerks back, insanely ticklish. “Magic.”

“Anyway,” Eddie says, forcing a cough, “what was I saying?” 

“You’re turning twenty-eight,” Richie prompts. “An excellent age. I have been twenty-eight for approximately”—he counts off on his fingers—“seven months. The things I’ve seen… the things I’ve _done…_ ” 

Eddie pulls a lemon slice out of his drink, sucks on it, and then leaves it on the napkin. “You haven’t done anything,” he says. 

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” 

“You don’t.” 

“This is about _me,_ ” Eddie says, “and how I am turning twenty-eight and I should have my life together by now. Right?” 

“No one has their life together ever,” Richie tells him. “What makes you think you should?” 

Eddie waves his hand behind him. “Stan and Mike—”

“They’ve been little old men for years, dude,” Richie interrupts. “They are not who we should be basing our lives around.” 

“Ben and Bev—”

“Also not people to aspire to be,” Richie says. “Bev is my best girl but she’s a mess. Just because she’s in a happy and healthy relationship doesn’t mean she’s the end-all be-all. Dude. It’s fine.” 

“No, it’s not,” Eddie replies, “and if— _oh my god,_ does that not irritate you?” It’s another one of those obnoxious giggles, loud and fake. Those girls aren’t even talking. 

Richie snorts, leaning a cheek on a fist and looking in their direction. One of them, tiny and blonde, turns bright red. “They’re only like that because I didn’t card them again when they showed up,” he explains. “They told me their entire life story and it’s kinda dead for a Friday and I don’t care. That one in the middle is turning twenty-one tonight, so.” 

“Richie!”

“What? They bought me a birthday cake shot.” 

Eddie glowers at him. 

“Oh, whatever,” Richie says. “They’ll leave soon. If anything, the bouncer shouldn’t have let them in. Stop looking at me like that.”

“But what if something happens?!”

“We snuck you into every bar we could the night you turned twenty-one and you threw up in each bathroom.” 

“That’s besides the—“

“Hypocrite!”

“Bad at your job!”

“Good at changing the subject!” Richie trills. “I liked discussing your delayed quarter-life crisis. Let’s go back to that.” 

“No, it’s stupid,” says Eddie. “I wish I were turning twenty-one and still had my whole life ahead of me.” 

Richie knocks his knuckles against Eddie’s forehead. “Hello,” he says, adopting a strangely annoying, otherworldly tone. Marvin the Martian? Buzz Lightyear? “Earth to Eddie. Come in Star Command.” He makes shushing noises like he’s losing control of his walkie-talkie. “You are turning _twenty-eight,_ not one-hundred-and-six.”

“Yeah, and if I don’t get my shit together—“ Eddie cuts himself off, not sure what he’s going to say. Well, no, he knows what he’s going to say; it’s circling through his head, but it’s half-formed. His mouth is really loose though. He moves it to smack his lips and ends up saying, “You probably don’t even remember it, but if I don’t… next month is… and I’m… and _we_ —“

Richie stares at him very intently, absorbing it all, even if Eddie makes no sense. If Eddie is probably just being spurred along by the—what are palomas made of?

“Tequila.”

And what drink did Mike have?

“Whiskey sour.”

Hm. 

“Hold that thought, alright?” 

Richie meanders back down the bar towards that horrendous group of girls. Eddie watches them, slurping at his drink, and wrinkles his nose. Tiny Blonde smiles at him, and the girl in the middle rolls her eyes, and Eddie thinks they are ridiculous and he’d also like for Richie to come back to _him,_ his real, actual friend. 

He does, after a bit. “They have terrible taste in drinks,” he tells him. “They ordered lemon drop shots this time.”

“Mm.” Eddie chews on an ice cube. “Those aren’t bad. You’re mean about drinks because you bartend.”

“I never tease you,” says Richie. 

“You poured an entire bottle of whipped cream Pinnacle down the drain.”

“We were twenty-two and that shit always makes you vomit.”

“Not _always._ ”

“Okay, fifty-fifty chance of vomiting or making out with someone you shouldn’t.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But I know you were talking about that marriage pact we made in high school,” Richie breaches carefully. 

Eddie swallows. “Oh.”

“I remember it.”

“Right.”

“That’s what’s got your panties in a twist?” Richie asks. “A thing we did ten years ago?”

“Yeah. Well,” Eddie admits. “It’s almost up, the ten years.” 

“I noticed,” Richie says. “It’s October. We made it in, like, December.”

“So, uh. Does it… does it make you nervous?”

“The marriage pact we made when we were eighteen? Does that… does it make me _nervous?_ ” 

Eddie nods. 

“Why would it?” 

“It makes _me_ nervous,” Eddie says, which—maybe he shouldn’t have? He’ll have to explain why he is. He just…

Mm. Mhm. Hm. 

There is no logical explanation for it. Or there is. He just doesn’t want to deal with it outside of his head and his numerous conversations with Mike and Stan. 

Certainly not _minutes_ after he’s broken up with a guy he was only really half-heartedly seeing, just like all the rest.

“Why?”

So he blurts out the next best thing, which is so far from the truth: “Because it means I failed and you were wrong and I will be alone forever.”

What it really means: _This entire time I think I’ve only ever wanted you._

“Firstly, romantic relationships are overrated,” Richie says immediately. “Secondly, you won’t be _alone,_ and thirdly, I want to know _yet again_ where the fuck I am in this situation. You are always erasing me from the equation. It’s so demeaning. I may die from neglect.” 

“I’m not… I don’t want to have to be anyone’s second choice,” Eddie replies. He sucks on another piece of fruit, all soaked in alcohol the way it is. It’s tangy and citrusy and very strong. He refrains from making a face. “I don’t want to have to, like, fall back on that, not that I think we _are,_ but—like, have you ever thought about it? It’s funny, but do people actually do that? Do they resent each other if they do?” 

“I imagine people who do things like that genuinely believe they’d be happy marrying the person they made the pact with,” Richie says. “Bev made one with Kay, remember, like three years ago?”

“And you think they’d do it?”

“Sure.” Richie shrugs. “They’re best friends, aren’t they? What’s better than that? _And,_ ” he adds, brandishing a red stirrer, “what do you mean _second choice?_ Dude, Eds, Eddie, _my love,_ you’ve been my first choice since third grade.”

“What?”

Richie smiles at him. Eddie tries to decipher which one it is, but by the time he blinks away that tequila haze and squints, whatever it was is replaced by his usual shit-eating grin. It feels like some sort of loss, but Eddie can’t focus on that, not when Richie is saying shit like, “Let’s make a pact.”

You know, again. 

“What is it this time?” Eddie asks. “A death pact? A suicide—uh. A suicide… _squad?_ ”

Richie blinks. Snorts. Says, “What? No. I was thinking more of a pregnancy pact this time.”

Eddie wrinkles his nose. “No, thanks. Make one of those with Stan.”

“Stan as a parent?” Richie muses. “I can’t see it. As a grandpa, yes, but a dad? No.”

“You have to be a dad to become a grandpa.”

“Says who?”

“The circle of life.”

“Right. Yes. And it moves us all.” Richie boops his nose. “But seriously. A pact.” 

Eddie sighs. “What kind of pact?”

“The most important one of all,” Richie says grandly. He pauses, holds his hands out. “Go with me to that god-awful Halloween party Bill is making us go to.”

“I wasn’t going to go,” Eddie tells him. “I hate all of Bill’s weird writer friends.”

“Fair, but we’re all going!” Richie says. “And I can’t go if you’re not going.”

“Why?”

“We’re _so good_ at couples’ costumes, Eds!”

“So you’re using me,” Eddie says. 

“A tiny bit. The teeniest bit.” 

Eddie flicks his wrist and tries to wrestle out of Richie’s hold when he grabs his hand. He is very warm. He thinks his pulse is _leaping_. “I might be offended,” he says. 

“It’s out of love,” Richie tries. “I’m only using you because I looooove you.” 

“I love you too,” Eddie grumbles. He hopes he sounds annoyed and not—however he sounds. His tongue feels kinda heavy. “But I don’t wanna go.” 

“ _Eddie,_ ” Richie whines.

He shakes his head. 

On his right, one of the girls from the group sidles over. “Richie,” she says, and even her _voice_ is annoying. “They have a question about something.” 

“Of course they do,” Eddie mutters. 

Richie laughs at him, and unlatches from Eddie, heading in their general direction. The girl does not follow him back, though, opting to sit at the empty seat next to Eddie. 

“Hi,” she says. “Who are you?”

“You’re not supposed to talk to strangers.” 

“We’re at a bar, that’s literally what you do here,” she replies. “I’m Patty. It’s my birthday.” 

“It’s not your birthday _yet,_ ” Eddie corrects. “But, uh. Happy birthday. I guess.” 

“Thank you.” She smiles at him, big and bright. “Now you introduce yourself.” 

“I’m Eddie. I’m gay.”

“Cool. I’m not. Are you and Richie dating?” 

He blinks. Coughs. “No, but he’s, like, eight years older than you—” 

“Oh, I am not interested,” Patty says. “I was just asking because, you know, he quite obviously asked you out on a date.”

“Who did?” 

“Richie.” 

“No, he didn’t,” Eddie says. “He just wants us to do a costume thing at a party I don’t want to go to.” 

“Where I come from, Halloween costumes are very important.”

“Aren’t you in college?”

“Yep,” she replies, “but Halloween is important throughout life. Not that I need to get into that with you right now. I would consider it if I were you though. Who you do Halloween costumes with is very tricky. You need to make sure you are compatible and that you have the same level of care for the costume and the holiday as a whole, and… it’s kind of like asking someone to go to a formal with you, you know? You either gotta mesh or you wanna hook up. It can, in fact, be both, which I’m sure you know.” 

Eddie chews on a grapefruit. “No. I don’t.” 

“Well.” Patty tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Regardless of if you want to go to the party or not, he wanted to go with _you,_ and that means something. Go to the party. Don’t go to the party. It’s whatevs. But _do_ go on a date somewhere. I think he wants to.” She leans forward like she’s conspiring with him. “I think he likes you. You don’t make marriage pacts with people you don’t _like,_ Eddie.” 

“What are you majoring in, eavesdropping?” 

She giggles. “Yes. And early education.” 

“I would hate it if you were my teacher.”

“Thank you,” Patty says. “You’re a really mean person.” 

“So are you.” 

“I’m being helpful, Eddie!” 

“Says who?”

“Says m— _Richie!_ ” Patty’s entire tone changes, high-pitched and excited, a complete one-eighty from a second ago. “Eddie deserves something sweet in his life.” 

“I’m trying, Patty, but he keeps rejecting me,” Richie says. 

She flicks a quick glance Eddie’s way and despite it being as fleeting as it is, Eddie feels the judgment and the smugness all in one. He shoots her a nasty side-eye, which only makes her laugh. 

“What’s going on here?” Richie asks because he’s apparently very observant. 

“I came over here to _chat_ because Eddie looks _sad_ and no one is allowed to be sad on _my_ birthday.” 

“Patty is lucky it’s her birthday or I would murder her.”

Patty waves him off like he’s a pesky fly. “I’m going to ignore that very obvious threat. Richie, why is Eddie sad?” 

“I think it may have something to do with him breaking up with his boyfriend,” Richie replies, “and he thinks he’s old and decrepit. Or something. Your friends ordered green tea shots. Do you want one?” 

“Yes and so does Eddie.” 

“Eddie does—” 

“Eddie does, see!” 

“Pat—”

“Your boyfriend sounds boring, Eddie. I think you’re better off.”

“You don’t know anything about—”

“What are you guys doing for Halloween? After my birthday, Halloween is my favorite holiday.”

Richie snorts. “We could go to a party, but he doesn’t want to.”

“Oh, I see,” Patty says. “That makes sense though. Eddie just got out of a boring relationship—”

“—you don’t know anything about my—”

“—and maybe a party just isn’t what he’s up for right now, you know? You should do something else. Something lowkey, but still fun. I think they’re doing a Halloween-y thing at the barcade downtown.”

“We used to love Street Fighter, dude,” Richie says.

“ _You_ used to love Street Fighter,” Eddie shoots back. “You never let me win.” 

“I could potentially let you win this time around,” Richie says. “In the spirit of Halloween.” 

Patty clears her throat. 

“And Patty’s birthday,” Richie adds, nudging two shots towards them to which Eddie says, “I don’t want this,” and Patty snaps, “Yes, you do.”

“Very pushy,” Richie notes. 

She smiles demurely. “I get that a lot. Thank you.”

Eddie sighs, looks at Patty, and says to Richie, “We could do that instead, if you’re fine with missing the party. I really can’t stand Bill’s friends.” 

“Whatever you want. I just wanted to hang out with you on Halloween,” Richie says. “But that’s a much better date honestly.” He jerks his head to Patty’s friends, one of which is texting furiously, and heads over to them, sticky shot glasses in tow. 

“ _A much better date!_ ” Patty crows, ignoring her phone, lighting up every half-second with a new text. She flips it over.

“You are _yelling,_ ” Eddie says.

“It’s my birthday. I’m allowed to yell,” Patty says. “Now tell me, Eddie, did you ever have a fantasy about pushing Richie up against the—what was it— _Street Fighter_ machine and just having your way with him? Full-on just, like—like _ravishing_ him? What a nerdy fantasy that would be. Have you had it? Share the details.”

Eddie feels himself flush, and he is _so hot,_ maybe kinda sweaty now, so he coughs and moves to take the shot just to have something to do with his hands. And his face. And his mouth. Patty sees it all happen and laughs, a loud cackle, and if Eddie weren’t such a stand-up citizen he’d pinch her. Punch her. No. Definitely pinch.

“That answers my question,” she says.

“I never said anything!” Eddie retorts. “And we made the pact senior year, so it’s not like I had a lot of time to… to erase the feelings I thought I had for somebody else and cultivate _that_ fantasy.”

Patty purses her lips. “Your voice went up, like, three octaves, dude.”

“It did _not,_ ” he argues, his voice going up, like, three octaves. “Look, we lived in a really shitty, backwards Republican town in Maine. We’d have been stoned if that happened. I would have been, like, _waterboarded_ for thinking it.”

“But were you?” she asks. “Because you’ve had the fantasy. I see it all over your face. Make it real, Eddie, make up for all that lost time. Love is love is love. Reach for the _stars._ Follow your dreams.”

“How drunk are you?”

She lifts a hand, alternating her fingers between the gestures for a lot and a little. She never settles on one. “Cannot accurately describe it,” she tells him, “but I will let you know I had no intention of getting as drunk as I am before eight. Richie is very heavy-handed with the alcohol, you know, in my defense.”

Eddie raises his half-empty glass, still full of fruits that remind him of springtime. “You’re tellin’ me.”

“Well, he likes you, so obviously.”

“He doesn’t _like_ me.”

“Oh, baby boy, he likes you. He _like-_ likes you. I am an _expert_ on it.”

Eddie scrunches his nose up and Patty makes a little _oh!_ sound, like she’s amazed by the gesture. “He doesn’t.”

“No one makes marriage pacts with people, Eddie!” Patty insists. He thinks she’s talking too loud. He wonders where Richie went. He wants to ask her if her hoop earrings are heavy in her ears. “That’s not a thing! I have been on this earth for many years—”

“—almost twenty-one—”

“— _almost twenty-one!_ ”

Eddie shushes her loudly. “I wouldn’t say that as loud as you are. You’re cute, but not cute enough for everyone to break the law for you.”

“ _Mmm,_ ” she replies. “Verdict’s out on that one, but stop distracting me. I am having a revelation for you, so listen.” She scooches her seat closer to him, bumps their knees together, and grabs his cheeks. “ _No one_ does that. I have never seen it once happen in a real life situation and when it happens on TV, it’s just so everyone involved can come to terms with not being romantically compatible or—I don’t know, other complicated terms for _not working out,_ and, Eddie, my friend, my _pal,_ those are just not the vibes I am feeling here. Are you feeling the vibes?”

“I’m feeling like you are very close to my face and smell very nice and I am drunker than I initially thought,” Eddie answers.

“Ugh!” Patty says, letting go of him. “Let me tell you about the vibes. They are here, they are real, there is _yearning._ What are you gonna do about them?”

Eddie pulls another lemon from his watered-down drink. “I dunno. Nothing.”

“ _Nothing!_ ” she repeats. “You made a pact ten years ago and none of your relationships worked out? None of you are dating _anyone_ during this most important year? Don’t you think that says something? Don’t you think it _means_ something? It’s like you’ve both got _taken_ tattooed to your foreheads in, like, sparkly font!”

“I’ve got _taken tattooed on my—_ how do you know he’s not seeing anyone?”

“Audra is incredibly nosy,” Patty says. “ _But!_ Are you kidding me? Eddie, seriously? Look at me. Not at my nose. At my eyes. Look at them. _You_ are going to do something about these vibes because you are _in love._ ” She mimes drawing a heart around his face with her two index fingers.

“Patricia—”

“—I really only like going by Patty, Patricia is so old—”

“— _Patty—_ "

“It’s my _birthday,_ Eddie.”

“You don’t get a free pass to harass strangers just because it’s your _birthday_ —”

“Yes, I do, especially when I’m right.” She takes her own shot now, puts her glass inside of Eddie’s, and says to Richie when he returns, “I think you two should be vampires for Halloween.”

“With or without glitter?” Richie asks.

“Oh my _god,_ ” says Patty. “ _With._ ” She leans across the bar and touches Richie’s cheekbone, privacy and common decency be damned, Eddie guesses. “Your jawline would look _so_ good if it sparkled.”

Eddie slaps her hand away. “You’re being creepy.”

Patty hums. “I wanna do your makeup if you are vampires. Please say yes.”

“I never want to see you again after this day,” Eddie tells her.

“That’s so cute of you,” Patty replies. “Wanna do another shot?”

He blanches at her, turning his gaze onto Richie, who is watching the two of them with unadulterated amusement. He holds his hands out, all _what can you do, am I right,_ and says, “You only turn twenty-one once.”

Patty claps. “Something pink, Richie,” she orders, and at the same time, she and Richie chorus, “like Eddie’s cheeks.”

When Richie’s back is to them, she looks at Eddie, flutters her lashes, and makes another heart with her fingers. _Vibes,_ she mouths. 

He throws a napkin at her, which she uses to dab at her lipstick, and when she makes him clink glasses with her, he thinks she’s humming the fucking _Wedding March._

* * *

Eddie doesn’t know if his groan of despair is from A) his massive hangover, B) Daniel’s text asking when he can come pick up his stuff, or C) the tiny little notification that says _KrabbyPatty_ started following him on Instagram. 

He decides, with all intents and purposes, that it’s the last one, especially because she’s sent him four separate messages, all with links to various… One is the event at the barcade she was talking about, the other is the page to Party City’s vampire teeth, and the next is just a gif of Robert Pattinson as Edward Cullen shimmering in the sun. She says, _imagine that’s Richie lol._

He doesn’t know why he answers her back. _What did I do to deserve this?_

 _Look sad on my birthday,_ she types immediately. _I’m invested now. Add me back._

Is he unwell? Has he been possessed? He clicks the follow button and then is bombarded with several likes, all of which are only on pictures of him and Richie. 

_Go away,_ he types. 

_No. This is important to me. Keep me updated!!! xoxoxo_

Eddie drops his phone again, groans even louder, and debates suffocating himself with his pillow. His head _hurts._ He thinks he’s dying. 

He pulls his comforter over his head, grabs his phone once more to check that it really is Saturday and he doesn’t have to go to work, and cocoons himself in darkness, misery, and a little bit of nausea. 

The world becomes silent, and then is filled with the smell of—is that eggs? Toast? Butter? Eddie is going to _die._ He’s going to vomit up his whole stomach and be covered in it and that’s gross, and sticky, and wildly unsanitary, and then he’d have to clean his sheets immediately. He doesn’t have the energy for that. He is boneless. Lifeless. He isn’t real.

“You rang?” Richie asks. 

There’s a moment of silence, and then another, and then another, and before the fourth, Eddie thinks he’s going to say something profound and important like _good morning_ or _go away._ Instead he says, “Mrrrrrrmph.”

He’s a little dehydrated, he thinks. 

“It’s eleven-thirty,” Richie tells him, voice too harsh and too loud. “I’ve been up for hours. Are you hungry?”

“No, I’m dead,” Eddie replies. “Be quiet.” 

“I told you you couldn’t keep up with a bunch of twenty-one-year-olds,” Richie says. Eddie’s mattress squeaks as he sits, directly in the middle. The weight of it has Eddie pitching to the side, closer to him, away from the comfort of his four pillows.

“You did not,” Eddie complains. “You just kept making me drink every time Patty did. Aren’t you supposed to cut people off?”

“I mean,” Richie says, “you weren’t angry or loud or even remotely causing a scene, so why would I stop you?” 

“I was sad.”

“You were not sad.”

“Patty says I was sad.”

“Patty doesn’t know anything about you.” 

Eddie makes a disparaging noise and rolls over. His face either hits Richie’s hip or his thigh. He’s not sure. “Oh, she knows plenty,” he says, giving himself a moment of coherent thought to mull _that_ over, which only makes his head hurt more. An underaged girl at the bar now knows more about him than his best friend does. What does that even _mean?_ Why is she his friend on Instagram? Why did he allow her to get in his head like that? To essentially ask Richie out on a date _for_ him? 

(It’s not a date. It’s just an alternative to the dumb party they were all going to. Just an event. A possibility. _A much better date,_ Richie said. Eddie can’t believe he remembers that. Or anything.)

“Oooh,” Richie sing-songs lightly. “Were you guys gossiping when I was gone? Do you have a new best friend? What does she know? Should I be jealous?”

“I told her nothing,” Eddie says, “but she somehow knows everything. She’s so scary. I don’t want to talk about serious things while I’m this hungover.” 

Richie’s fingers slide under the comforter, ghosting against the back of Eddie’s neck. Eddie yelps, flinches, and tries to move away from him. “I will throw up,” he warns loudly. It sounds shrill. “I will _throw up,_ Richard.” 

“Alright, Edward,” Richie replies, “but maybe you’ll feel better if you get some circulation up in here. You are in a blanket burrito.”

“I feel comforted in here. Safe. Like a baby.” 

“You will feel comforted if you eat this toast I made you,” Richie tells him. “And drank some water. And took a shower. And let me hug you.”

“ _Hug me?_ ” Eddie pops his head out from under his comforter.

Richie’s face is much closer than Eddie anticipated, his entire body hovering over him. Eddie blinks sleep from his eyes and attempts to jerk out of the way but only manages to bump their foreheads together. It is painful. Richie smells good. Clean. Like a fruit.

Richie laughs, face scrunching up, and says, “Peekaboo!” 

“No,” Eddie says, trying to pull the blanket back over him. “Too bright. Too happy.” 

“Don’t go, c’mon.” Richie grabs at the comforter and one of Eddie’s wrists, and Eddie can’t tell if it’s the alcohol still undoubtedly coursing through his system or just the overall abundance that is Richie that makes him feel each and every one of the whorls and loops of his fingers. It’s like he’s doing a DNA test or something and Eddie is covered in all of his fingerprints, owned by him. His property. He is so very nauseous, thinking about it. About being… uh-uh. No. He is going to throw up on Richie’s ratty Ramones shirt. “You’re doing so well!” 

“I want to _die,_ ” Eddie repeats. “Leave me to suffer.” 

“You can’t die,” Richie argues. “Who will I live with? Who will spend time with me? Who will eat the other half of my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?” 

“Stan,” Eddie grumbles. 

“Ugh.” Richie pretends to gag, which is really something else, considering how much he loves Stan—who he FaceTimes when he’s making dinner, and has as his emergency contact for every doctor he’s ever been to, and uses as his accountant even though Stan doesn’t _do_ income tax, and literally has a drawer in his dresser for his shit. One time (many times) they were the ones mistaken for a couple, not Stan and Mike; they went along with it for the free drinks when they were all in Cancun for Bev’s twenty-fifth. “Stan is so bony. He’s no good at cuddling.” 

“And I am?”

“Yes. The best.” Richie somehow wriggles his way into the comforter with him and Eddie’s traitorous body latches on, leg curling around Richie’s and arms wrapping around his waist.

Eddie thinks, _Please stop,_ but his body and brain are experiencing a disconnect that, if he’s honest, he’s been experiencing for the past, like, six years. He may bury his face in Richie’s side. He may sniff him, breathing in deeply, taking in that—is it apple? Does Richie smell like _apples?_

“You’re warm,” he mumbles. 

“And you’re very clammy,” Richie replies, pressing his palm to Eddie’s cheek. 

“Meh.” Eddie tries to move out of his touch, but he’s already so comfortably fused to Richie’s side that he just ends up further on top of him. Richie heaves him up more like Eddie weighs, he doesn’t know, ten pounds, which is unfathomable because Richie has never been to the gym once in his entire life. “Stop touching me.”

“ _You’re_ touching me.” 

“Am not,” says Eddie. “I’m just using you as a pillow.” 

“A body pillow.” 

“Shush.” 

“No, you’re not going back to sleep,” Richie says. “You’ll lose the whole day and be mad at me for not trying harder to keep you awake. Here. Open up.” 

Eddie does as he’s told, his eyes closed, mouth open, and bites down on the toast Richie made him. “This is good. Is it rye bread?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Love rye bread,” Eddie says with his mouth full.

“I know.”

Eddie chews, and chews, and chews. It takes him a really long time to swallow it and when he does, he shivers like he’s taken cough medicine. “Get that away from me,” he decides. “I don’t want to get crumbs in my bed.” 

“Too late for that.”

“Richie!”

“I’m kidding. There are no crumbs. The crumbs are on me,” he replies. “And if they get on your bed, I’ll wash your sheets. Now _wake up_ ”—he pinches Eddie’s cheek—“and eat. It’ll make you feel better.” 

“I already feel better because you are here,” Eddie admits. He feels Richie stiffen but thinks nothing of it, tapping him on the wrist. “Bread me.” 

Richie huffs, but raises the toast, and this time Eddie manages to bite, chew, and swallow in the appropriate amount of time. He smacks his lips, nestles into Richie more, and says, “Can I take a _little_ nap?” 

“No.” 

“A _tiny_ nap?” 

“No.” 

“A twenty-minute power nap?” 

“No.”

“A siesta?”

“Eds, you’ve been asleep this whole time. Get up.” 

Eddie shakes his head and grips him tighter, hand slipping beneath his shirt and resting at Richie’s lower back. Richie shifts like he’s ticklish. “But you are so comfy, Rich,” he whines. “I’m tired. I have a headache.” 

“Because you decided to drink with a twenty-year-old sorority girl,” Richie reminds him. “Don’t act all cute with me. It’s not my fault.”

“M’not cute,” Eddie says. “Even if I was, which I am not, it's not my fault you think I’m cute. So there.”

“ _So there,_ ” Richie mimics. “What are we, eight?”

“No.” Eddie groans, remembering the reason he feels this way. “We are _twenty_ -eight and everything my mother ever said about me is correct.” 

Richie runs his fingers through Eddie’s sweaty, matted hair. “Your mom is a straight up _bitch,_ ” he says. It is honestly a bit startling how angry he sounds. “She only said those things so you’d be convinced to stay with her for the rest of your life. We went to therapy for this.”

“I went to therapy,” Eddie says. “You sat in the waiting room.” 

“And walked you back home every time.” Richie pinches him. “We both went, dude.”

“Maybe she was wrong,” Eddie poses carefully. “Maybe my mother is right and she only said she was wrong so I would stop crying in her office every week. Maybe I’m too much and too hard to handle and just… just hard to lov—“

“Don’t say it,” Richie warns. There is an edge to his voice, different from before. It sends a thrill down Eddie’s spine. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about serious things while you were this hungover.”

“I didn’t want to talk about that _other_ serious thing. This is a different serious thing,” Eddie corrects. “Is it possible to be hungover and still drunk? I think the room is spinning. I’m living my worst nightmare.” 

“There are multiple serious things I don’t know about?” Richie asks. “And, yeah, dude. It’s called me every Thursday to Monday sophomore year of college.”

“I hate it. I feel like I have so much to say, but no way to say it. Like I want to do jumping jacks but also curl up into a ball. Like I want to watch _Last Song_ and cry when Miley Cyrus plays the piano.” Eddie feels like he’s been talking for hours. He doesn’t even remember what he said first. He’s just, like—he’s tired, but exhilarated. Ready to go. Ready to run. Ready to go back to sleep. His body disconnect is deepening, starting avalanches and earthquakes and creating crevasses in Eddie’s foundation. It makes no sense. “Like… like, what was I saying before? I think my therapist was wrong and I actually am hard to love otherwise wouldn’t someone love me by now? Wouldn’t I let myself love someone other than—“

“If you say Bill, I will lose my _shit,_ Eddie.”

“I haven’t loved Bill in ten years,” Eddie says, a little primly. “I was going to say you, but I really think we should talk about how little you like him.”

Richie exhales sharply, not quite a sigh but not annoyed enough to mean anything else. “I don’t _dislike_ Bill, I’ve just spent my entire life being jealous of—wait, did you say _me?_ ”

“Did I say—” Eddie repeats, somehow unable to understand the question. And then it all comes full force, like someone’s dumped a tub full of ice water over his head. _I was going to say you._ Backtrack a little more. _Wouldn’t I let myself love someone other than…_

_Wouldn’t I let myself love someone other than you?_

He grits his teeth and screams just a little bit. Just a tiny bit. Not even a lot. Just… a high-pitched sound that seems to last for hours. He suddenly feels even hotter than he had before, which doesn’t seem possible. Feels like he wants to rip his skin off and flee, whatever that means, but his soul is ascending. He’s not even present right now. He’s—is he suffocating? Is he _breathing?_ Why is he _stuck_ to Richie? Why is he touching him like this? It’s all so obvious and… and… and he can’t move, his body is too heavy, and he has no control over it.

All he hears is the way Richie said _me,_ and it plays on a loop in his head. Me. Me. Me. Me. _Did you say me?_ God. He sounded… he sounded so… is there a worse word in the English dictionary than _revolted?_

 _Oop,_ and here comes the vomit.

“Eddie—“

He pushes Richie out of the way, all but trips out of his bed, sheets tangled at his ankles. “I have to throw up,” he announces. “Um. Stay.”

“I… _Eddie._ ” 

Eddie bolts without a second glance and slams his bedroom door shut. The force of it shakes the pictures on the wall; he grabs one at the last second before it can hit the ground. It’s Eddie and Richie at one of their graduations. The elementary school one. Richie still has those stupid glasses, the really big ones, and Eddie was still growing into his mouth so he’s missing a tooth four from the front on the left side.

Eddie stares at it, knuckles white with effort, and puts it on the ugly table Richie put against the wall here. There’s a vase of fake flowers here, dusty with neglect. How long has he loved Richie? Has it been _that_ long, since they were hugging in the playground, cheeks mushed against cheeks? Did it happen after? Was it just a gradual thing that he never noticed? What _was_ it about him? 

It’s Richie, he guesses. That’s answer enough. 

It doesn’t feel like it happened in that bathroom stall. It feels like maybe it happened before, but he was so unaware of it. It feels like… it feels like maybe the reason his mother said all those things about Richie and tried to keep him away from him was… was because… because she somehow knew what was happening. What he was feeling. She wanted to kill it before Eddie could figure it out for himself, the same way she wanted to groom him into being the perfect son.

He gags, bile rising, and barely makes it to the toilet before he vomits. It’s nothing but liquid, mostly pink, and it burns all the way up and then somehow all the way down. It hurts. It’s disgusting. _He_ _leans his forehead against the seat,_ ugh, and throws up again because he can’t remember the last time this thing was cleaned. 

Eddie breathes in slow and exhales even slower. Tries to pretend he really is dead. Thinks about how he is an idiot, maybe, and how he doesn’t know why he says the things he says, and this is… it’s someone’s fault. Not his. He’s never done anything wrong in his life ever. It’s… it’s… it’s _Patty’s_ fault! 

He smacks his lips together, flushes, and opens up his message thread with her, this random girl he met last night and knows nothing about. She is the _worst,_ and an actual monster, and the reason he’s like this. God, it feels good to blame someone.

His thumbs seem too big for the screen. He types out _SOS. YOU ARE THE WORST. I HATE YOU._ He does not turn off the caps lock. It was put on by accident, but it is valid the way it is. It makes his rage clearer.

A minute later, there is a notification for a video chat. He’s never video chatted with anyone through Instagram, but he accepts it because he’s stupid and he’s dying and he wants to yell at her for killing him.

“Are you on the bathroom floor?”

“Are you—where are you?”

Patty shows off her nails, sparkling with gold. “I’m at the spa.”

“You video chatted me from _the spa?_ ” He blinks. “How are you _functioning?_ ”

“Orange juice, sesame seed bagel with veggie cream cheese, iced coffee the size of my head,” Patty replies. “And, yes, I video chatted from the spa! You sent me an _SOS_ text. It seemed dire. Friends help friends in their time of need.”

Eddie shakes his head. “We are not friends.”

“We’re friends,” she disagrees. “You chose to talk about your problems with me. Friendship.”

“It’s because it’s your fault.”

“Don’t see how it could be,” she replies. “But please tell me what it is I did wrong.” 

“You made me _think,_ ” he complains. 

“About Richie?” she asks. “Don’t think that’s my doing. You’re always thinking about him. You told me that.”

“I didn’t tell you anything!”

“I inferred. I saw. I was _aware._ ” 

“Aware of nothing. I was _fine._ ”

“Mhm. Okay. Oh, hold up.” She jostles her phone and says, “The pink for my toes, yeah.” Eddie is looking at her eye again, green and surrounded by some kind of purple eyeshadow. “Tell me what happened, Eddie.”

Eddie wonders if it’s weird that he’s about to tell this small girl about his current dilemma and decides nothing could be worse than what’s actually happening, so why not? 

And, well, he’s still a little drunk and he has no control over his mouth, or his thoughts, or his body, because he _lays down on the floor._ With his head on the bath mat, he tells her everything, including sporadic details of the things that happened in high school, which is all kinds of traumatizing to relive. He doesn’t even tell it right, but she’s less fixated on his childhood trauma and more on—

“ _You said_ you _and then ran away?!_ ” she shrieks. “I can’t—are you kid—don’t you want to _know_ what he has to _say?_ The yearning, Eddie! The _yearning!_ ”

“Um. No. I already heard it. It was not _yearning,_ you are _wrong._ He sounded like he was, like, disgusted by the fact that I—“

“No, I didn’t,” Richie’s voice says on the other side of the door. 

Patty gasps, hand covering her mouth.

“I told you to stay in my room!” 

“Oh my god,” Patty says. “He _followed_ you.”

“Why would I stay in there after you said that?” Richie asks. “I’ve spent half my life thinking you were in love with _Bill._ ”

“Ooh, that sounds like jealousy to me,” a different female voice says. Patty shushes her loudly. 

“Who’s Bill?” someone else asks, much quieter than before.

“Were you not listening?” another snaps. “He’s the one from high school. The reason for the pact in _the first place._ ”

Eddie stares at Patty’s nose, then looks up at the door. “Okay,” he says the doorknob, golden and probably in need of a cleaning. “I don’t think I was ever _in love_ with _Bill._ ”

“That much is obvious.”

“Shut _up,_ Audra.”

“ _What?_ ” Audra says. “It is!”

Richie demands, “Then why didn’t we ever talk about the kiss, Eddie?”

“ _The kiss,_ ” Patty whispers. “A _kiss,_ Eddie? How could you leave out such critical information? I thought we were friends!”

“We are _not_ friends,” Eddie hisses. “We met _yesterday._ You are seven years younger than me.”

The other girls are whispering to each other, and Eddie can see them trying to look at Patty’s phone. “You think it was good?” one asks another. “The kiss, I mean.”

“They were in high school,” is the response she gets back. “Probably not.”

Richie knocks on the door. The sound is loud. Echoing. He feels it between his eyes. “ _Eddie._ ”

“Time means nothing,” Patty says, “and my sister is twenty-eight. It’s fine. This is, like, a normal Tuesday for me.”

“It’s Saturday.”

Richie knocks again.

“Yeah, but this normally happens to my sister on Tuesdays.”

“She has crises about telling boys she’s probably been in love with them for years?” Eddie asks. “Like… this is a common occurrence? Is she okay?”

“Absolutely not. Are you going to let him in?”

“Um.” Eddie stares at the doorknob again. “I don’t know.”

“My darling boy—”

“—we met _yesterday,_ I’m not your darling _anything—_ ”

“Eddie,” Patty says seriously. “I have known you for less than twelve hours, yes, but please listen to my advice, which is very good and beneficial for you, okay? Are you listening?”

Eddie nods vacantly.

“Let him in and tell him you love him,” she says. “It’s as simple as that. Bathrooms are very romantic for the two of you apparently.”

Audra, the redhead who likes shots named after cakes, pops into the frame. She does _not_ look like someone who almost threw hands with a guy at the jukebox for trying to change the music from One Direction to Bruce Springsteen, but that’s exactly what she did. “Brush your teeth first,” she says, miming the action. “You just threw up.”

He’s suddenly very aware of the taste in his mouth, of how he thinks he could throw up again, just a little. His entire body is vibrating. He doesn’t know what that means. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Patty claps. “Okay! Goodbye. Have fun. We’ll discuss what happened over brunch tomorrow. I’ll send you the deets. Go get ‘em!” Before she clicks off, he hears her yell, “ _No,_ Jamie, it’s _my_ turn for a facial!”

Eddie half-heartedly brushes his teeth, does it for, like, forty-five seconds tops, which is something he is not proud of at all. He should devote the full two minutes to his oral hygiene, but he’s not entirely sure he’s done vomiting.

His phone vibrates on the sink, the little Instagram logo popping up with both a fluttering heart and the emoji with the sunglasses. He’s not sure what the purpose of it is, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever understand Patty at all—both as a person and how she managed to somehow become someone he talks to about things he doesn’t talk to literally _anyone_ about.

Eddie swipes past it and types out a message, hitting _send_ before he can think it over, and dry heaves into the sink. He merely spits up toothpaste.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, wipes _that_ on his pajama pants, and washes out the drain. In the mirror, he sees his reflection: bright, glazed over eyes, flushed cheeks, pale skin everywhere else. He looks miserable. He looks like a literal shell of himself. He’s never drinking with anyone more than three years younger than him again. Hard rule.

Richie knocks on the door again, a slow, tentative rap of his knuckles, and Eddie opens it with a flourish, hoping he can’t see him tremble. He’s managed to direct all of his nervous energy to his feet.

“We didn’t talk about the kiss after because I was embarrassed,” Eddie admits, looking past Richie at the pale eggshell color of their wall. “You were saying all these nice things and you’re always on my side and you said…” He remembers it _so vividly:_ the hair (shorter now, but still as messy); the pathetically earnest look on his face (still present, whenever he looks at Eddie); and the sincerity in which he offered himself up, told Eddie he’d never be alone if he had him (and he hasn’t, has he? He’s always had Richie, even when things seemed bleak).

The way he said _you’ll find someone better_ and Eddie’s immediate thought, heartbroken at seventeen with the world falling apart at his feet, was _I hope I never do._

“Embarrassed of what?” Richie asks. “Of… me?”

Eddie shakes his head, a tiny movement that rattles his brain so much he feels it bounce off each side of his skull. “I could never be embarrassed of you, even if you did something terribly embarrassing, which is always very often,” he says. That seemed like a lot of words. “I always thought you were embarrassed of me.”

Richie opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. Words do not come out, no sound does, for what feels like forever. “Why would I be?” he finally asks. His voice is hoarse. 

“Because I’m me.” Eddie shrugs. “You said all these nice things, and you were promising so much, and you probably didn’t even mean it because people do not ever mean anything they tell me, and I took it too far. I just… no one had ever made me feel that way before.”

If he’s honest, no one has made him feel that way ever, but no one needs to know that sad truth.

“Made you feel what?”

“So wholeheartedly wanted,” Eddie blurts. This is not how he anticipated this conversation happening. He was probably going to take this to the grave, if he’s honest. Just… just end up married in an unfulfilling and unhappy relationship until he dies. But here he is, doing the complete opposite. There are so many factors to consider, including but not limited to: Eddie’s very _personality,_ vodka in general, the word _you,_ Richie’s very beautiful face, and Patty Last Name. _What is her last name?_

Eddie has to take a deep breath to calm the roiling of his stomach and the dizziness settling over him. He presses his palm to the doorframe, just in case, you know, he falls over or something. “I walked into that bathroom feeling like the world was ending and came out of it like… like… maybe it wasn’t and maybe it could be better. And I have never felt that way before that or after it.” The words are pulled from his throat like they’ve got a mind of their own, clawing their way to freedom. “And I know it’s so stupid, especially because it wasn’t real and it didn’t matter and nothing was going to come from it, but I’ve been holding on to it for this fucking long, unable to…” Oh god, he’s going to vomit again. Why is he talking so much? He _just_ brushed his teeth. “Some of those guys were really fucking nice and I liked them a lot, but they weren’t _you_ and they had never crawled under a locked bathroom stall in the _girls’ bathroom_ and fake-proposed to me. They never measured up.” He presses his fingers to his eyes. His head pounds behind them, his vision blooming with odd colors. “God, I’m never drinking again.”

Richie stares at him, blinking wildly behind his glasses, a frenzy of lashes and tiny glimpses of his eye color, brown and pretty and—avoiding him completely. The silence between them is palpable and thick; Eddie can _see_ it. It stretches forever, swirls around them, consumes them, and with each passing second Eddie feels himself shrink until he’s nothing.

He opens his mouth, a slow, torturous movement, but their bell rings before any words can come out, and Eddie isn’t sure if he wants to hear them anyway.

“Daniel’s here to pick up his stuff,” Eddie says. “So, I’ll just…” He plucks the toothbrush from the holder and shuffles past him, awkwardly holding something that’ll probably just get thrown out. Who comes to get _their toothbrush?_ It’s not even the primary toothbrush. It’s secondary. An extra.

It’s dumb. 

Eddie places it on the kitchen counter and goes to answer the door. He peeks through the hole, sees Daniel on the other side, perfectly dressed and coiffed, acting like the normal twenty-something he is.

Eddie is wearing pajamas. There’s a toothpaste stain on the front of his shirt. He sort of smells like vomit and, if he focuses hard enough, some kind of sweet alcohol.

Cool. Yes. Exactly the way he wants to look right now.

He fiddles with the locks, all three of them, and tries to think of what interesting thing he’ll say. What does someone say to a person they broke up with less than twelve hours ago because, honestly, he saw his roommate in the ugly shirt he pretends to hate? _Hello_ will have to do, he supposes.

He pulls it open, runs his tongue over his teeth, and is staring Daniel right in the face when Richie comes skidding into the room, bottle of Advil in hand, and says, “You think it wasn’t real? You think I didn’t mean it? Eds, I’d marry the shit out of you any day.”

Daniel chuckles, eyebrows lifted. “Yeah,” he says to the ceiling. “I knew it.”

Eddie’s entire face flushes, red as a tomato.

Richie hits his knee against the table, fumbles with the Advil. “Oh, uh, hey, man. It’s good to—it’s not what it sounds like. When we were in high school, I told him that I—”

“Yeah, uh.” Daniel scratches the left side of his nose. “The fun thing about not dating Eddie anymore is I don’t have to listen to your nonsensical stories. I’m just gonna grab my stuff and go. You can keep that cute anecdote you have prepared to yourself.”

“ _Anecdote,_ ” Richie mutters, mocking his voice to a T.

Eddie bites his lip to hide his growing smile, and the two of them watch Daniel flit in and out of the various rooms of their apartment. He hasn’t left _that_ much stuff here, so he’s a bit confused as to why he’s here for it. A sweatshirt, maybe like two pairs of pants, quite frankly an ugly tie, three books, and a pair of shoes.

He’s gone as quickly as he arrived, waving a hand at Eddie and ignoring Richie. It was totally not awkward at all. Eddie thinks it went well. Great. Amazing. Something to check off the to-do list. 

The door shuts behind him. The sound seems to echo. 

And Richie’s voice is even louder than that, filling the space like there’s nothing in it. “Do you think he _had_ to take _Grapes of Wrath?_ I was halfway through it.”

Eddie wants to say _I’ll buy you your own copy_ or _I’m sure there’s an eBook of it out there_ or something mean like _You can read?_ But instead he says, “I have to vomit again,” and locks himself in the bathroom.

* * *

It takes an hour or more (Eddie is not counting), but he moves from the bathroom to his bedroom, which is, thankfully, free of Richie.

The plate is still there, half-finished toast sitting on it and getting stale, along with the Advil and a glass of water. Eddie touches it—still cold—and comes to the realization that Richie waited until he was certain he was done in the bathroom to put it in here. It makes something inside him unfurl. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, convinced it is another bout of nausea, but the uncomfortable feeling never leaves him.

He curls up in his bed again, Richie’s scent clinging to his pillow, and rolls onto his other side to escape it. After several seconds of tossing and turning, Eddie grabs the pillow and hugs it. He is not ashamed.

When he wakes up again, it’s to a dark sky outside his window, a half-dead phone, and three new messages. One is from Patty, who merely asks _soooooooooooooooo?_ and the other two are from Richie.

(5:13) _if u look to ur left u will see i made u soup and put it in a thermos  
_ (5:13) _also tell me when u wake up_

That was, like, forty-five minutes ago. He doesn’t hear any sounds in the apartment, so he assumes Richie has gone… elsewhere—to Stan’s, perhaps, or the bar, to either drink or work, it doesn’t matter. Eddie sends Patty an upside-down smiley and then replies to Richie.

(6:01) **What kind?**

Eddie finds out in the span of twenty seconds that the silence is a ruse. Something clatters to the ground, gives off a kind of shattered sound—probably the remote—and Richie says, “Chicken and stars! Obviously.”

“ _Obviously,_ ” Eddie mimics, pushing himself up. He feels better, marginally. Feeling has returned to his body, making him feel less loose and limp. More in control. It’s like the hangover and all that came with it—Patty, Richie, _I was going to say you,_ Daniel, _yeah, I thought so_ —never even happened. He tastes nothing but sleep in his mouth. 

If he focuses hard enough, he can erase it all from existence. He just took a long-ass nap _which he deserves_ and Richie made enough dinner for two like he always does before his shifts. In this case, it’s just, like, three cans of Campbell’s soup. 

Eddie untwists the thermos and is overcome with the smell of broth. It’s comforting. It reminds him of—not his home, but Richie’s, where Eddie would always end up when he was sick. Maggie may have been ditzy at best and inattentive at worst but she did know how to coddle when someone wasn’t feeling well. This exact soup, a little Vick’s under his nose and slathered to his chest, and a big mug of honey lemon tea and you were good to go in a matter of hours. He spent more time there when he had the flu than he did at home; he and Richie often succumbed to the same illnesses within days of each other. 

It awakens that uncomfortable thing stirring in Eddie’s gut. It roars something loud and fierce with the first sip he takes. There are tiny cubes of chicken and carrot and little star noodles in his mouth, under his tongue, and his mind whispers, _See? He takes care of you and it’s not a big deal. It’s nice. He’s nice. You lov…_

A knock to the tune of Billy Joel’s _We Didn’t Start the Fire_ sounds at Eddie’s bedroom door. He coughs, soup going down the wrong way, and listens again. It doesn’t come back, the song, but Richie’s voice is soft and hesitant, almost hard to hear. “Can I come in?”

Eddie starts to say “no” but sees the sticky-note on the book on his nightstand. It says _ily :(._ Eddie swallows the lump in his throat. Answers, “Yes.”

When has he ever said no? Denied Richie of anything?

The last few things he word-vomited at him (before the actual vomit) come full-force to the front of his mind. Eddie should be embarrassed, should have a lot of things he should find ways to explain away, but it doesn’t matter. It never has with Richie, even when the things he says are nonsensical. 

Richie stands in his doorway, illuminated by the hall light, and his hesitance is as endearing as the shadows the light casts on his face are attractive. Eddie pats the empty spot by his knee. Slurps on more soup. 

He feels more comforted than he has in days. Years, maybe. 

“Hi,” Richie says, hovering by the side of the bed furthest from him. “You feeling better?”

“Yeah.” Eddie grips the thermos with both hands. “You’re turning into Mags, I think.”

Richie smiles a bit, just a quirk of his mouth. “It was bound to happen eventually,” he says. “She loved to mother you.”

Eddie wrinkles his nose. “You love to mother me?”

“Nah.” Richie shoves his hands in his pockets. “I love you, though.” 

“Yeah. I saw.” Eddie shows him the post-it. 

“No. I… I mean, yes, I love you like that, I will always love you like that, but also I love you like…” He clenches his fist, Eddie sees the muscles and veins in his hand and up the length of his forearm working overtime, and then he throws something on his bed. “I also love you like this. I’m talking about this way. Currently.”

Eddie’s eyes can’t seem to focus on what to look at. Richie, nervously biting his lip? The thing he threw on his bed, boxy and black?

His fingers close around it, decipher it for what it is, but his gaze stays on Richie, who is rocking back onto his heels. It’s dark in here, even with the door ajar, and they are hidden from each other yet somehow so completely open. Eddie snags his nail on the opening of the box, stares at Richie. Richie, who is flushing, he can see it now from here, even without any light. 

“You said, before,” Richie starts, voice quivering, “that nothing was going to come of it. That I didn’t mean it. That it didn’t matter.” He swallows, fiddles with his glasses like he always does. “I did mean it. It did matter. I don’t say things I don’t mean, Eds, even if they seem like a joke.” He clears his throat. “Even if they _are_ a joke.” 

“Was this?”

“No. No, of course not. Nothing with you is a joke, Eds.”

Eddie squeezes the thing in his hand. “This is wildly unromantic, Rich.” His voice cracks on his name, breaking it in two. 

Richie huffs a laugh, breathless and kind of shaky. “It wasn’t romantic back then, either. You were covered in snot. There were fluorescents.”

“And now we’re in the dark and I’m all vomity,” Eddie says. 

“You’re still the cutest boy I’ve ever met,” Richie admits. “I’ve thought that since second grade. I had to beg Colucci to change our seats so I could be your friend.”

“But you hardly talked to me in second grade.”

“I was scared,” Richie tells him. “I just looked at you a lot. The only reason we’re even friends is because—“

“—because she assigned us as homework partners.”

“You were good at spelling and I was good at math,” Richie recalls. 

“And now I’m better than you at math and you can… you can spell.”

Richie rolls his eyes and clears his throat. “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. S-U-P-E-R-C—“

“I don’t think you can actually spell that.” 

“I _can,_ ” Richie defends. “You’re just jealous because you can’t.”

“S-U-P-E-R-C-A-L-I-F-R-A-G-I-L-I-S-T—“

“Stop,” Richie interrupts loudly. “That’s my thing. Get your own. Solve an equation or something.”

Sometimes Eddie has no idea how or why he comes up with the things he says. Now is one of those times. He hands over the box, and he _knows_ what it is, but what comes out of his mouth is, “I can’t. I don’t have all the variables.” 

Ooh. He has to remember he said that. Patty would enjoy it.

Oh my god. Patty is his _friend._

But that’s a thought process for another time. Now, he focuses on Richie’s hand, warm and calloused, fingers curled around the side of his thumb. He takes the thing, holds it like it is something both precious and very heavy, and licks his lips. 

“Like properly?”

“However you want to,” Eddie offers. “Just don’t throw it at me.”

Richie uses his free hand to mess with the arm of his glasses. He gets his hair caught in it, makes them lopsided on his face. That thing in Eddie’s belly warms at the sight of him like that, messy and cute and undoubtedly nervous. “Okay,” he says, “but to do it _properly_ ”—he says this with a British accent—“I have to go back to when we were, like, thirteen.” 

“Thirteen?”

“The summer Bowers broke your arm, specifically,” Richie explains. He stuffs the box back in his pocket. Tugs on the string of his hoodie. “I don’t know, you were, like, fucking crazy that summer, telling your mom off and harassing all of our bullies and climbing into that stupid hammock with me every chance you got. That cast was bigger than you were, dude, but you still climbed trees and went swimming and I thought you were so cool. There was a lot happening that year, but I was the only one you let sign that thing and it… I thought it meant something more than it did, but I was too scared to tell you, like I was too scared to talk to you when I was—how old are you in second grade?”

“Seven, I think,” Eddie says. “I didn’t want anyone else to sign it. It would’ve gotten dirty.”

“It got dirty in under twenty-four hours,” Richie retorts. “You didn’t take care of it. Didn’t you get some kind of infection?”

Eddie smiles a bit ruefully, remembering the tirades he would go on about one infectious disease and then another. Of course he’d be the one to get a staph infection. It makes sense if you think about it. “It would’ve gotten dirty,” he repeats. 

_How long has he loved Richie?_ By that summer, the earliest. Maybe before that but he doesn’t have much of a memory prior to seventh grade. The hammock, the cast, following him around, buying ice cream and pretending to be bad at Street Fighter to convince himself it was okay to have him touch him. 

Maybe the thing with Bill wasn’t even real, wasn’t what he thought it was. Bill was cool, and Eddie loved him all throughout school, and he liked him because it was… because it was _easy._ Because, even though he reacted very poorly to the whole thing in high school, if Bill ever found out and rejected him, it wouldn’t hurt as much as it would if… if Richie did. 

Jesus Christ.

 _How long has he loved Richie?_ Since second grade. 

Did he ever really love Bill? No. He was projecting.

Eddie tugs on his collar, tries to cool off his heated skin. 

“I carved our initials into the Kissing Bridge and Stan was there because I was, like… I was crying and he didn’t trust me to use a pocketknife on my own, so Stan knows and he told me I should tell you but then you decided to have a crush on Bill, which is _so dumb_ —“

“—wait, Stan knows? Stan _knows?_ ” 

“Y-yeah,” Richie stutters. “He’s my… I tell him everything. Even stuff he doesn’t want to know, like the results of my blood work. I’m low on iron, by the way.”

“Are you still not taking daily vitamins? I _told—Stan knows?_ Where’s my…” Eddie slaps around his blankets, searching for his phone. He ignores Patty’s response ( _I don’t like that emoji. I like this one 👬_ ) and pulls up his messages with Stan.

(6:32) **YOU KNEW???????  
** (6:32) **I’ve been talking to you about my crush on him for YEARS and you KNEW  
** (6:33) _I know everything, Eddie.  
_ (6:33) 🕵️ 

Eddie doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. “Are we sure he’s an accountant? Does he really work for the CIA and we don’t know? Have you ever visited him at work?” 

“Why would I visit Stan at his boring accountant job?” 

“Why not? You tell him everything so you must know where he works. Unless he really _does_ work for the CIA and you aren’t liable to share that information,” Eddie rambles. “I bet he’s in some secret subsection of the CIA, too, like, he’s really smart and sneaky and he can definitely get _anyone_ talking in a matter of minutes…” 

“Are you okay?”

“It’s his eyes, I think,” Eddie continues. “He’s got a really sharp face, but it’s kind, so you trust him. You think he _wants_ to know and he does, but what does he _do_ with the information he gathers? What’s the _purpose?_ ”

Richie drops to one knee on the mattress and shifts forward so he can peer up into Eddie’s face. “Is this a stroke? Do I have to do something? I’ll be honest, I didn’t pay attention during any of the trainings at the bar, so I really hope no one ever chokes while I’m working or they’ll for sure die. Eddie, are you going to die?”

“Yes, I’m going to _die,_ Richie!” Eddie bursts out. “I’ve had a crush on you since the bathroom and I’ve been talking to Stan about it for the _past ten years,_ like, we talk about it maybe once a _month,_ and he’s here hiding all of this background information? Letting me go on dates and start relationships with people I’m only partly interested in? And Mike must know about this, too, and he just lets him do it? What terrible friends! I need all the variables, Rich. _All of them!_ No one ever gives me _all of the var—_ “

“Will you go on a date with me?” Richie blurts out. It sounds like he’s yelling. 

Eddie blinks back to life, looks from Richie’s wide eyes to the simple silver band inside the ring box, and says, “I’m, like, eighty-two percent sure that’s not how you do that.” 

“I mean, yeah.” Richie clears his throat, falling back to sit on his feet. “Like, it’s a… but we’ve never actually… do you _want_ me to propose?” 

“You are literally more than halfway there.”

“We have never been on a date,” Richie tries. “How do you know if we’re, like, a good fit or that you really want to marry me?” 

“We made a pact,” Eddie murmurs, wrapping his fingers around Richie’s wrist. He feels his pulse jump; his own quickly answers back, not one to be outdone. “I’ve been holding onto it for years, keeping it in the back of my mind almost every day since we did it. I _told_ you this. I’ve been self-sabotaging because I want to honor the pact, and Patty says no one makes marriage pacts unless they mean it, so I think you want to, too.”

“Patty doesn’t even _know_ us.” 

“She doesn’t have to,” Eddie replies. “Ask me. Ask me the right way.” He says it all so fast he’s not sure it’s coherent. Or in English. Or any other language Richie may know (he’s really good at linguistics).

Richie looks perplexed, eyebrows raised and mouth pressed into such a tight line his upper lip all but disappears. He blinks at Eddie, blinks at Eddie _again,_ leans over to turn on the lamp on his nightstand, flooding the room with light. Eddie notices how clean and put together Richie is for the first time all day and realizes he hasn’t brushed his own hair. Or washed his face. He’s not even sure he’s _peed_ today. 

It takes Richie a while to sort through his own thoughts. Eddie allows this, tugging his fingers through the tangles at the back of his head, smacking his lips, upset with how they feel, not quite like they’re chapped but not normal either.

He takes the ring out of the box, puts that… somewhere, and holds it in his palm. Between his fingers. Looks at it like he’s not even sure what it is, what it _means,_ looks at Eddie again. Eddie sees it, what Patty said last night. The yearning. Richie’s face looks just like Eddie’s does whenever he’s around him. 

“You want me on the floor or can I do it in the bed?” 

“The bed’s fine.”

Richie nods. Takes a breath. Holds the ring up so Eddie can see it. “You wanna make a pact?”

Eddie’s heart beats double time. “What kind of pact?” 

“The biggest of all,” Richie says. “You wanna marry me?”

It’s all so silly, the two of them never having gone on a real date, sitting there in Eddie’s bed while Eddie eases off one of the worst hangovers of his life, but he holds out his hand and says, “Yeah.”

Richie is shaking as he slides the ring onto his finger, as he bends that very finger to look at it, as he says, “I still think the color scheme should incorporate yellow because you look good in it.” 

“Richie.”

“What?”

“Are you crying?”

He sniffs and wipes at his eyes. “Oh,” he says, fingertips wet. “I guess so.” 

Eddie tightens his grip on their weird half-handhold. “Why?” 

“I don’t know,” Richie answers. “I never thought this would actually happen. I wasn’t lying when I brought it up the first time and maybe I did analyze all of your relationships and got excited when they didn’t work out, but… I don’t know, I always thought you’d find someone better than me. There have been plenty.”

“Sure, but they weren’t you.” Eddie wriggles their hands, slips his fingers between Richie’s, and notices how the ring catches the light. “There is no one better than you. I knew that when I was seventeen.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why didn’t _you?_ ” 

“The Bill thing! It seemed like poor timing.”

“You _kissed_ me!” Eddie exclaims. “Like, not even an hour after it happened!”

“Okay, that’s wrong and you know it. _You_ kissed _me,_ ” Richie says. 

“The first time,” Eddie argues, “which was terrible. The _second_ time—“

“Fine, whatever, yes, but we had to make sure we could… that it was… _you know,_ if you had a crush on me since then, _you_ could’ve said something. It’s been ten years.”

“Goes both ways!”

Richie squeezes his hand. “Every time I got comfortable enough to even _consider_ bringing it up, you’d be like, _oh here is Hans I’m seeing him now._ ”

“I don’t even _know_ a Hans.”

“Every boy you’ve ever been with has had many qualities in common with Hans, the villain from _Frozen._ ”

“Hans, the villain from… does that make me Anna?” 

“Yes.” Richie nods. “I’m Kristoff. Obviously.”

Eddie frowns at him. “I think getting a Disney-plus account was a very poor decision on my part.” 

“No, that’s not the problem,” Richie says. “We aren’t very good at communicating about the important things. That’s what it comes down to. Both of us have had many opportunities to tell the other how we felt, but we just didn’t.” 

“Not until you served an underaged girl at the bar at seven on a Friday,” Eddie says. “You know what? She’s a better friend than Stan and I don’t even know her last name.” 

Richie laughs. “What’d she even do?” 

“Oh, god, it’s so…” Eddie untangles their hands and makes a heart shape between them. “That. She did that.”

“What does that even _mean?_ ” 

“I don’t know!” Eddie startles himself with a laugh so hard he snorts. “But it blew my mind apparently. I threatened to _kill_ her.” 

“You did. Multiple times,” Richie agrees, “but she just kept making you drink with her and touching my cheeks, which is not the weirdest thing someone at the bar has done to me, so.”

Eddie mimics it, running his thumb from the apple to his chin. “You _do_ have wonderful cheekbones,” he says. “She wasn’t wrong.”

Richie’s answering smile is soft. He cups Eddie’s face in one large palm, twisting his fingers—long, long, _long—_ into the hair Eddie just attempted to unknot. “I’m gonna communicate an important thing to you right now, okay?” 

“I am all ears.”

“And such cute ears they are.” Richie’s hand tilts Eddie’s chin up. “I want to kiss you. And not just because we made any sort of pact, or to see if we’d be any good at it, but because I want to.” 

“Okay,” Eddie says. “I want to, too.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes, their faces inching closer and closer. The tips of their noses touch. They are _millimeters_ apart when he adds, so soft there’s no noise and Richie has to decipher just the movement of Eddie’s mouth against his own, “I wanna do a lot of things with you.” 

Richie audibly swallows and then, well, they’re kissing.

Eddie doesn’t remember much of the initial kiss, all those years ago, but what he does is this: He feels so comfortable. So _safe._ Wanted and secure and… the thing in his gut settles, sits like a cat in the sun, purring and sated. Richie’s lips are soft and his kiss is slow and confident and smooth, like he knows exactly what to do and what Eddie likes. He coaxes his head up a little bit more, tilts his, and kisses him so thoroughly Eddie feels it in his toes, still curled up beneath them under the blanket. 

Eddie’s mouth parts. The kiss deepens. The rest of the world all but disappears. It’s just Eddie and Richie and the sliding of their mouths. Eddie’s hand fists the neck of Richie’s sweatshirt and Richie holds Eddie’s face gently, tenderly. It’s the kind of moment they cut to black on in the movies. The kind of moment love stories end on. A perfect kiss and an even more perfect moment, but Richie and Eddie always go above and beyond, no matter what the situation is. 

In this instance, they have a lot of time to make up for (due to their own stupidity). 

Eddie falls back on his pillows, Richie on top of him. He pulls away, mainly to breathe, when he remembers. “Where’s the soup?”

“On the nightstand,” Richie answers. His eyes are bright. “See? Look.” 

He doesn’t need to _see_ it, trusting Richie implicitly, but Eddie turns his head anyway. The thermos is there, on top of the book he’d been attempting to read. The sticky note is attached to it. _ily :(._

“Okay. Good. I don’t want soup _and_ toast crumbs in my bed.” Eddie twirls the string of Richie’s hoodie around his finger. “Take this off. It’s getting in the way.” 

“In the way of what?” Richie asks, though one of his arms is already free of the sleeve.

“Me touching you,” Eddie answers. He helps him pull it over his head, grabbing the hem of his undershirt with it, and smiles at the state of Richie’s hair and glasses when they’re done. “Wanna take these off?” 

Richie’s cheeks color instantly. “No,” he says. “Wanna see you.” 

“You can’t even see as close as we are?” 

“Wasn’t lying about my shitty eyesight,” Richie replies. 

Eddie fixes them instead, tucks a particularly wild curl behind his ear, and has a very sudden, very painful out of body experience when he asks, “You lie about your dick size?”

Richie gets redder, but this time his mouth curls into something positively sinful. Eddie feels his entire body respond to it and shifts just a little, spreads his legs. “You wanna find out?”

Eddie makes a sound that isn’t human, probably, and pulls Richie back down, latching onto the underside of his chin, pressing slow, lascivious kisses down the length of his neck. He drags his teeth over the jut of Richie’s Adam’s apple, works on marking up the skin between his collarbones. 

Richie inhales sharply, breath whistling between his teeth, and bares his neck, giving Eddie more access. “I’m going to interpret that positively,” he says. 

“Sorry,” Eddie mumbles, “I’m not communicating the important things.” He shimmies back, inspects the hickey he’s left there ( _it could be bigger_ ), and makes deliberate, intense eye contact with Richie. “Yes, Rich. I would like to find out if you’ve been lying about the size of your dick, and then, no matter what it looks like, I want to put it in my mouth.” 

He watches the way Richie’s pupils dilate, black eclipsing the brown. The stutter of his chest, the hitch he hears there, has Eddie’s toes fucking curling. Richie says, “I hope it fits.” 

Eddie runs his tongue over his teeth. “My gag reflex is basically nonexistent.”

Richie twitches, and then moves so quickly it’s like a spasm. He’s got his thumbs hooked over the band of his sweatpants faster than Eddie can _blink,_ and pulls them down and off, throwing them somewhere behind him. He goes to his boxers next, but Eddie pounces before he can, knocking him onto his back. 

“I want to be part of this too,” Eddie snaps at him. “You’re taking all the fun out of it.” 

“I’m _sorry,_ Mister I Have _No_ Gag Reflex,” Richie retorts. “My brain short-circuited.”

Eddie settles on Richie’s thighs and frowns down at him. “I didn’t say that. I said it’s _basically_ nonexistent. It’s there. I have one.” 

“Literally the same thing, Eds,” Richie says. “Basically is just a fancy word for like, so all I heard was _my gag reflex is, like, nonexistent._ ”

“That can’t be right.”

“Just let me have this one,” Richie whines.

“You have an honest to god _degree_ in _words,_ ” Eddie insists. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Yes, I can, because of my degree in _words,_ ” he teases. “I’m right. You’re wrong.”

“Mm.” Eddie hums. “Sure you are, baby.” He kisses him again, hand splayed against his chest, holding him in place, and drags his tongue down to his belly button. He pulls the right side of Richie’s underwear down just enough for him to suck a bruise by his hip bone. He grins when Richie bucks up, when he whines at the feel of Eddie’s teeth. 

“Ed _die,_ ” he blurts. “You’re so mean.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard,” he comments easily. He slides his hands to Richie’s lower back, underneath to his ass, and pushes him up to tug his boxers down. He does it slowly, almost slow enough that he’s even torturing himself, and then— _and then—_

“Holy _shit,_ ” he says. 

Richie kicks off his underwear on his own, leaves it somewhere in the mess of blankets and sheets. “What’s the verdict? Was I lyin’?”

“No. No, that’s…” Eddie coughs. Swallows. Finds out his mouth is totally, completely, one hundred percent _dry._ “You were… you were right. Totally allowed to make all those jokes. Holy shit, was this like this the whole time?” 

Eddie can’t even take his eyes off of it. It’s there, and it’s pink, and it’s curved to the side, and it’s… it’s throbbing. It’s ready. It’s… _fuck,_ Eddie wants to _lick_ it like some kind of fucking popsicle. 

“More or less,” Richie replies. “It’s a pain in the ass to tuck into my pants.” 

“You should never have to tuck this away,” Eddie says. He doesn’t even know what he means by it. He reaches out, runs his finger along the length, wet with pre-cum. 

Richie shivers. “You want everyone to see it?” 

“I mean, _no._ Just me.” 

He flicks his thumb over the tip, holds it loosely in a fist, squeezes once. It’s so fucking thick. His next thought comes unbidden, like he’s unlocked some hidden door in the back of his mind. He hopes he doesn’t say it out loud, but Jesus _fucking_ Christ, he wants this inside him. He _clenches_ at the idea. He twists it, right at the base, wondering what it would feel like to be full of it, to have the width, the length, the heat of it filling him up. His hand moves again, Richie’s body jerks, and Eddie bites down on his lip, hot all over. His own dick is appreciative of his thought process.

But Richie has no idea what he’s thinking about, and the third time Eddie twists his wrist, he jerks a knee. “Oh my god, Eddie,” he blurts. “ _Please_ do something with this.”

Eddie blinks out of his fantasy, heart racing like he’s already done it, and looks down at the penis in his hand. “Oh. Sorry.” He says nothing else, does not warn him, just licks him from base to tip, hollows out his cheeks, and swallows him—not whole because he’s big and Richie is wrong about the definition of the word _basically._

It’s a slow and steady sort of thing, Eddie’s jaw aching already. He hardly hears the sounds Richie is making, shouldering his legs open and settling in between them, one hand at his hip, the other around his dick to work whatever part of it he can’t get in his mouth. 

He works a rhythm, bobbing his head and pulling off from the tip, making these obscene, wet noises each time he does it. God, it’s so fucking nice. He loves it, the way it feels, how it twitches, the weight of his balls in his hand. Richie is a babbling mess above him, making no sense at all, saying shit over and over when Eddie tunes in. Stuff like _so good,_ and _yes,_ and, Eddie’s personal favorite, _I love you I love you I love you_ because he knows it’s more than the heat of the moment.

Richie reaches down and fists at his hair, pulling tight. Eddie gasps at the sensation and goes limp, lets Richie take the reins. He fucks into Eddie’s mouth, slack jawed and willing, and when Richie’s thighs shake, he tries to pull Eddie’s face from his dick. 

Eddie shakes his head and pulls back just a little, lets Richie’s cum shoot warm and salty down his throat. He smacks his lips, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, and breathes more easily for the first time in—however long it’s been.

“Oh my _god,_ ” Richie pants. His chest is slick with sweat, pooling around the grooves of his stomach. Eddie is gross, disgusting, the dirtiest person he’s ever met, and he licks at it, dipping his tongue into his belly button. He thinks he may slurp. He feels Richie’s muscles jump and then he’s being pulled up Richie’s body, where Richie’s mouth presses against his forehead, his nose, his cheeks. 

Eddie jerks back just a little bit when he goes to kiss him properly, but Richie holds him in place, hand at the back of his neck. He makes a sweet, smacking sound when he pulls away. “You are so hot, dude.”

“My jaw hurts,” Eddie tells him, feeling itchy from the compliment. “Do you have chapstick? Wait, this is my room.” 

Richie reaches up to massage his face. “Sorry,” he says softly, “but you can get chapstick later. What do you want me to do?” 

Eddie bumps his nose against Richie’s and kisses him again. “Just touch it,” he says. “I don’t… I don’t care.”

“You knew what you wanted to do to me,” Richie says. “You must know what you want done to you.”

“Hands,” he requests. “They’re so big. I’m kind of obsessed with them.”

“Okay,” Richie says. “Whatever you want.” He slides his hand down Eddie’s chest, still covered by his sleep shirt, and he shoves Eddie’s pants as far down as he can, palms his thigh. His hand is _huge,_ able to curl around the entirety of his leg. He inches it upward, just as Eddie is getting used to be so small compared to him, slides over the curve of his ass and _squeezes._ Eddie whimpers, Richie’s fingers too close to where he wants them, to where he wants _his_ dick, and it’s like he knows that, like Richie is in his head now that he’s the one in control.

“Not fair,” Eddie mutters, one of Richie’s fingers pressing lightly, and then tapping, against his hole. The pressure there, and the fantasy Eddie created in his head, has him arching his back, sitting into it, sparks _zinging_ up his spine.

And then the sensation is gone, just as it breaches a little bit, and Eddie is going to scream, maybe, missing Richie’s touch, any touch, and—

He swallows back a gasp the second Richie wraps his fingers around his dick. They're so big, so _long,_ his fingers. Everything about Richie is so much _larger_ than Eddie ever will be—his height, his shoulders, his _mouth._ Something about that is so alluring to him, being like this in Richie’s capable hands, both literally and figuratively. He may overzealously thrust into it.

Eddie bites down on Richie’s shoulder once he really gets going, whining around him. Richie’s free hand gropes to find Eddie’s, fingers between his own, and the whole thing feels more intimate than it has any right to. No, that’s wrong; it feels exactly as it should, as Eddie and Richie should—closed, connected, _captivated._

“That good?” Richie asks, pulling back to glance down, to fix the angle of his hand.

Eddie nods wordlessly, licking up the sweaty length of Richie’s neck, teething at the skin there before slotting their mouths together. They make out slow and steady, the pace of his hand matching the kiss. Eddie groans, shifting into it, lifting their joined hands up to hold Richie’s face. His heart beats fast and hard in his chest, threatening to burst.

He is sensitive and wired and so, so tense that every twist, every pull, each touch feels like the first, the last, and somehow the end of the world. He shudders, bites down hard on Richie’s lower lip, or his tongue, or something. He isn’t sure how much time has passed, has no concept of it. He just knows the heat crawling up his neck, the pressure building and swirling in his belly, and the searing hot feel of Richie’s fingers. He says something, though he’s not sure what, a garbled mess of words, and Richie laughs, kissing his nose.

Is it possible for that little action to be hot? Because it is. It’s so hot. Eddie almost whines at that alone, mind pleasantly blank. Everything Richie does is so—it’s so fucking— _shit._

“You’re my favorite person too,” Richie says, and that’s it for Eddie. The throaty, almost broken, strangled way he speaks… Eddie’s a goner, coming with a jerk, so hard he feels it in his throat. 

There is a moment where there is nothing but silence, just the ringing of it, loud and obvious. Eddie breathes in sharply, wakes up his body, and blinks at Richie, urging coherency through his brain. Whatever he manages dissipates at the look on Richie’s face, wide, open, and staring at Eddie like… like…

It doesn’t matter that Eddie’s limbs are jelly and his mouth is sore and the drag of his dick against the blanket hurts. He throws himself forward, surging upwards to kiss him again. Richie moves against him enthusiastically, cupping his face and brushing his hair away from his forehead. 

Eddie doesn’t worry about the mess between them, his own come drying cool and sticky on both of them, and presses closer, tighter. His head pounds, just a little bit, behind one of his eyes, but he feels relaxed. Calm. Like a decade’s worth of confusion and pining have been lifted from his shoulders. He feels free. Is that weird to say?

“This is not how I expected my Saturday to go,” Richie murmurs, forehead pressed to Eddie’s. He noses him again, and Eddie lifts his chin to let him kiss him, a soft peck to his mouth. “Pass me one of those tissues, will you?” 

“You had big plans today or something?” Eddie asks. It’s painful to pull away from him, but he does, reaching over to grab the box of Kleenex on his nightstand. 

Richie shrugs a shoulder, attempting to clean himself up. He goes through a lot of tissues, makes a pile of them at his side. “Figured I’d wake up, you’d already have gone on a run or something, and I’d watch, like, _Iron Man_ until you came back with smoothies. That’s what normally happens.”

“Oh my god,” Eddie says. “Can you—the _floor,_ dude, I have to _sleep_ here—“

“I have a bed too,” Richie offers. “Clean sheets and everything.”

Eddie hums. “Tempting. Sorry about the lack of smoothies today.” 

“We’ve all been hungover before, Eds.” Richie grins at him. “Probably the best Saturday I’ve ever had, though, smoothie or no smoothie.”

Eddie smiles shyly back at him. “How do we go about telling people about this?” he asks, looking at his ring finger. His hand is kind of sticky, but it doesn’t matter. “There’s, like, no logical explanation.” 

“There never is with us,” Richie replies. “I don’t think it will require much of one anyway, but if it _does,_ I can just tell them all about our time in the bathroom, as romantic as it is.” 

“Nothing about any of this has been romantic,” Eddie grouses. “I can’t believe I’ve agreed to marry you twice.”

“I can’t believe you’ve been sabotaging all of your relationships,” Richie shoots back, eyes alight with amusement. “Tell me about them.”

“Why’d you say _all_ like that? There weren’t that many.” 

“Seemed endless,” Richie admits. “Greg was the worst, though. No. Sam. I _hated_ Sam.” 

“Yeah, and I hated Sandy, so we’re even,” Eddie says. “She always used my conditioner and she pretended to like your apple turnovers even though she spit them out every time she ate them. A _waste._ I would’ve eaten them.” 

Richie leans over and kisses his forehead. “You can eat as many apple turnovers as you want,” he promises.

“Good,” Eddie says. “Can you make them tomorrow?” 

“I guess,” Richie considers. “I think I need to buy more apples. Do we have butter?” 

“No idea. I haven’t been in the kitchen today.” 

“I know, I’ve been waiting on you hand and foot like some kind of medieval sex slave.” Richie sighs. “Good thing you’re so good with your mouth or else it would not have been worth it.” 

Eddie slaps his hand out of the way before Richie can pinch his cheek. “Don’t try to be cute with me after you said all that gross shit,” he warns. “I was gonna offer to go to the store with you, but maybe I won’t.”

Richie gasps, clutching his chest. “You _love_ the supermarket, Eds! You’d pass up the opportunity to judge produce _and_ random shoppers?”

“Maybe.” 

“You’re a little liar,” Richie says. “I see you smiling; you can’t hide it. You love the supermarket. It’s your favorite place to get anxious.” 

“Everyone is so mean and it’s so bright,” Eddie agrees. “By far one of the circles of hell—just going around and around _and around,_ looking for this one particular item and it’s out of stock… but we’ll have to go after brunch.” 

“Brunch?” Richie asks. “With Mike? Reschedule it.”

Eddie smiles up at him, cheeks dimpling, mouth aching with the strain. “Not Mike.” 

“You brunch with someone other than Mike?” 

“Mmmm, not normally,” Eddie says. “This is new.” 

“Who?” 

“Patty.” 

“ _Patty?_ No. Are you kidding? Reschedule.”

“I’m afraid I can’t, Rich,” Eddie says. “We have her to thank for the _best Saturday you’ve ever had._ ” 

“It was _not_ because of h…” 

Eddie shuts him up with an air-heart, looking at him with wide eyes and raised brows. 

Richie looks like he’s having an argument with himself; he closes his eyes, scrunches up his face, and shakes his head. “Fine,” he says. “Fine. But this is _weird,_ and I’m only staying for the duration of the bottomless mimosas. No longer.” 

Eddie pokes him in the belly, a light touch that has Richie squirming. “Yay.”

“ _Yay?_ ” Richie repeats. “Jesus fucking—you can’t hang out with her again if you’re going to say _yay_ to me.” He gathers up all the tissues in one hand, shoves them in his boxers, which he pulls out from under Eddie’s leg, and stands. Eddie does _not_ stare at the dimples at his lower back, gaze falling lower and lower to settle on his ass and the pull of his hamstrings as he bends down to get the rest of his clothes. He does not. “I’m gonna go change. Wanna meet me in the living room for a movie?”

“Which one?” Eddie asks, like he’ll say no to anything Richie suggests right now.

“I dunno,” Richie says. “Whatever you want.” 

“Do we own _Twilight?_ ”

Richie laughs. “Yeah, I think so.” 

He leaves, shuffling down the hall, and Eddie remains where he is for just a few seconds more: to catch his breath, put on chapstick, and, shockingly enough, search the mess of his sheets for his phone.

He finds it, ignores the notifications that fill up the lock screen, and thumbs open Instagram. 

_Patty,_ he types, _1) what is your last name? 2) can I bring a plus one tomorrow? 3) 👬_

On the left-hand side, it shows Patty is present and typing, so he waits. Her response is huge, not contained to one message.

First, it’s _!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_ and then it’s _🥺🥰💃😎_ and then it’s _Blum :)_ and _OF COURSE_ and _MY FAVORITE EMOJI!!!!!_ and _my darling boy I’m going to cry :(_

Eddie likes the last one with a big, red heart. 

* * *

Patty looks like a bonafide Disney princess in her yellow bridesmaid dress, flowing out at her waist and ending at her knees. She’s got white flowers braided into her hair, has switched from her tall heels to her sensible flats (“God, Richie, you think I can _move_ in these monstrosities? Beauty can only be pain for so long!”), and smiles at everyone from the front of the room, face pink from the glasses of wine Eddie’s watched her drink all day. She looks like a girl with a plan, but that’s how she always looks, if he’s honest.

“Hello,” she says into the microphone she snatched from the DJ. Oh, no, from _Stan,_ who looks three parts infuriated, bamboozled, and impressed. “Almost none of you know me, but that’s okay. I don’t know you either.”

“Oh my _god,_ ” Richie blurts. 

Eddie laughs into his shoulder.

“I am not in the itinerary, or the schedule, or whatever, but I just have one thing to say to you all. _You’re_ _welcome._ ” She waits politely for the laughter to die down and there’s a lot of it, half the guests having already consumed as much alcohol as she has. “We would not be here today without my superior power of meddling,” she continues. “Stan is going to give some boring speech about how he knew it was meant to be or whatever, I don’t know, I didn’t read his index cards, but his relationship with both Eddie _and_ Richie is weird, so I could be wildly off target. _Anyway,_ if Audra”—she points to where her friend is sitting, chatting up, of all people, _Georgie_ —“hadn’t dragged me into Richie’s bar because she thought the bartender was hot—“

Audra looks away from Georgie to call out, “Am I wrong, though?” 

Ben wolf-whistles. 

“Oh my _god,_ ” Richie says again. Eddie squeezes his arm.

“Richie is the bartender, if that wasn’t clear,” Patty adds hastily. “If I hadn’t been dragged there, I would have never seen the truly pathetic, horrifying heart eyes the two of them had for each other and I wouldn’t have interfered. I think I may have instilled the fear of god into Eddie that night and then killed him. I’m sorry. It was my birthday. There are no rules on my birthday.” She searches the room for Eddie, smiles at him big and bright, and says, “I am very happy for you. Please never forget that I’m always right.” She bows her head. “Thank you. My name is Patty.” 

Bev is the first one to clap, loud and echoing, and then Bill hollers, and the room is full of raucous applause. It wasn’t even that good of a speech. Richie is complaining under his breath about inviting her, let alone making her part of the _wedding party,_ as if Eddie hasn’t caught the two of them watching _She’s the Man_ and doing homemade facials before. Eddie, on the other hand, thinks she’s the best.

She returns the mic to Stan. “Beat _that,_ Uris.”

“I’ve known them for _decades,_ Patty,” Stan retorts.

Patty flips her hair, ready to flounce off. “And yet it’s taken us _this long_ to get here.” She smiles. “Break a leg!”

Stan watches her go, checks the volume of the mic, and starts off his Best Man speech with, “She teaches our children. Just let that sink in.” He waits a minute for her to sit. “But she’s right,” he says. “My relationship with both of them is remarkably weird, so this is not the speech you’ve all been hoping for. It’s a roast and it starts in Miss Colucci’s class in the second grade.”

**Author's Note:**

> apparently my Richie fucking loves Frozen. don't hate


End file.
